/ 


SAXE    HOLM'S    STORIES. 

SECOND    SERIES. 


SAXE   HOLM    STORIES. 

FIRST  SERIES. 


Draxy  Miller's  Dowry.      The  Elder's  Wife. 
Whose  Wife  was  She.      The  One-legged  Dancer* 
How  One  "Woman  Kept  her  Husband. 
Esther  Wynn's  Love- Letters. 


SAXE  HOLM'S 


STORIES 


SECOND    SERIES. 


NEW   YORK: 

CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S   SONS, 

1888. 


Copyright,  1878, 
BY  CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S    SONS* 


CONTENTS. 


A  FOUR-LEAVED  CLOVER    I 

FARMER  BASSETT'S  ROMANCE 66 

MY  TOURMALINE I41 

JOE  KALE'S  RED  STOCKINGS 266 

SUSAN  LAWTON'S  ESCAPE 331 


466523 


A    FOUR-LEAVED   CLOVER. 


PART   I. 

QERGEANT  KARL  REUTNER  had  never 
O  found  a  four-leaved  clover.  He  had  often 
looked  for  them  —  at  home  in  Bavaria,  in  the  green 
meadows  at  the  foot  of  the  giant  glacier  Watzman, 
and  in  America,  on  the  sunny  prairies  of  Illinois. 
But  he  had  never  found  one.  "  It  is  luck  ;  I  shall 
not  have  luck  before  I  find  the  four  leaf  of  clover," 
he  had  said,  half  jesting,  many  a  time,  to  himself 
or  to  gay  comrades.  And  in  his  secret  heart  he 
was  not  without  a  shadow  of  superstition  about  it 
It  had  again  and  again  happened  that  some  one  by 
his  side  had  stooped  and  picked  a  four-leaved 
clover,  upon  which  he  was  just  on  the  point  of 
treading,  while  his  eyes  were  searching  eagerly  for 
it.  It  did  seem  as  if  Karl  could  never  see  the  magic 
little  leaf,  and  why  should  this  not  mean  some 
thing  ?  Whence  came  the  world-wide  belief  in  the 
spell,  if  it  were  merely  an  idle  fancy  ? 

But   now    Karl   Reutner  was   to  find   his  four 
i 


i  -'I*  , 

f  *  e  «     .    *•  I         .    ..   .  .  v  . 


2  A  FOUR-LEAVED  CLOVER. 

leaved  clover.  There  it  was,  gently  waving  in  the 
wind,  not  two  feet  away  from  his  eyes.  Karl  was 
lying  low  on  the  ground.  He  was  not  looking  for 
four-leaved  clover;  he  was  listening  with  every 
faculty  sharply  concentrated,  waiting  for  a  sound 
which  seemed  to  him  inexplicably  delayed.  He 
was  lying  in  a  trench  before  Gettysburg,  and  he 
was  impatient  for  the  order  to  fire. 

The  gentle  summer  breeze  stirred  the  grass 
blades  on  the  upper  edge  of  the  trench,  and  part 
ing  them,  showed  one  tall  four-leaved  clover. 
With  an  exclamation  of  delight,  Karl  dropped  his 
musket,  picked  the  clover,  fastened  it  in  the  band 
of  his  cap,  and  lifting  up  the  cap,  imprudently 
waved  it  to  the  right  and  left,  calling  down  the  line  : 
"  Good  luck,  boys  !  The  four  leaf  of  clover !  " 

The  next  Karl  knew,  it  was  night  —  dark,  star 
less,  chilly  night.  He  was  alone ;  a  dreadful 
silence,  broken  now  and  then  by  more  dreadful 
groans,  reigned  all  around.  He  was  naked ;  he 
could  not  move ;  terrible  pains  were  racking  his 
breast.  Something  was  firmly  clutched  in  his 
right  hand,  but  he  could  not  lift  his  arm  to  see 
what  it  was  ;  neither  could  he  unclasp  his  hand. 

The  battle  of  Gettysburg  was  over,  and  Karl 
was  shot  through  the  lungs.  "  Good  luck,  boys ! 
The  four  leaf  of  clover !  "  had  been  his  last  words, 
hardly  spoken  before  the  waving  cap  had  proved  a 
mark  for  a  rebel  sharp-shooter,  and  Karl  had  fallen 
hack  apparently  dead. 


A  FOUR-LEAVED   CLOVER.  J 

No  time  then  for  one  comrade  to  help  another. 
In  a  few  moments  more  his  company  had  gone, 
leaving  behind  many  of  its  brave  fellows  wound 
ed,  dying,  dead.  In  the  night  Karl  had  been 
stripped  by  rebel  prowlers,  and  left  for  dead. 
Only  his  cap  remained  ;  that  was  so  firmly 
clutched  in  his  right  hand,  they  could  not  take  it 
from  him.  Withered,  drooping  above  the  tarnished 
gilt  wreath  on  the  band,  hung  the  four-leaved 
clover;  but  Karl  could  not  see  it.  He  remembered 
it,  however,  and  as  he  struggled  in  his  feverish  half 
delirium  to  recall  the  last  moments  before  he  fell, 
he  muttered  to  himself:  "The  four  leaf  of  clover 
brought  this  of  luck  ;  bad  luck  to  begin." 

The  feeble  sounds  caught  the  ear  of  a  party 
of  rebels,  searching  for  their  wounded.  As  the 
dark  lantern  flashed  its  slender  ray  of  light  upon 
Karl's  figure,  and  the  rebel  officer  saw  the  United 
States  badge  on  the  cap,  he  turned  away.  But  at 
Karl's  voice  and  the  broken  English  :  "  Water ! 
For  God's  love,  one  water  !  "  he  turned  back.  The 
blue  eyes  and  the  yellow  hair  had  a  spell  in  them 
for  the  dark-haired  Southerner.  There  had  been 
a  Gretchen  once  with  whom  he  had  roamed  many 
a  moonlight  night,  in  Heidelberg.  Her  eyes  and 
her  hair,  and  the  pretty  broken  English  she  had 
learned  from  him,  were  like  these. 

"  Pick  him  up,  boys ;  he  '11  count  for  one,  damn 
Jiim !  "  were  the  words  under  which  he  hid  his 
sudden  sympathy  from  the  angry  and  resentfu] 


4  A  FOUR-LEAVED  CLOVER. 

men  who  obeyed  his  orders.  But  afterward  he 
went  many  times  secretly  to  the  ambulance  to  see 
if  that  yellow-haired  German  boy  were  still  alive, 
and  were  covered  by  blankets. 

Of  the  terrible  journey  to  Libby  Prison  Karl 
knew  nothing.  A  few  days  after  it  he  came  again, 
slowly  and  painfully,  to  his  consciousness,  as  he 
had  that  first  night  on  the  battle-field,  like  one 
awakening  from  a  frightful  and  confused  dream. 
He  was  on  the  damp  dungeon  floor  ;  a  pretense  of 
a  pallet  beneath  him.  When  he  tried  to  speak,  a 
strange,  gurgling  sound  filled  his  throat. 

"  Better  not  try  to  talk,"  said  the  surgeon,  who 
happened  to  be  standing  near. 

"  Am  I  dying  ?  "  said  Karl. 

"  No,  not  just  yet,"  laughed  the  brutal  surgeon  ; 
but  you  won't  last  long.  Our  boys  have  n't  left  you 
any  lungs." 

It  was  too  true.  The  bullet  had  gone  through 
both  lungs.  In  one  there  was  a  hole  into  which  a 
man  might  put  his  fist.  Karl  shut  his  eyes  and 
again  the  vision  of  the  waving  clover  leaf  floated  be 
fore  them.  He  fell  asleep,  and  dreamed  that  he  was 
lying  in  a  field  filled  with  four-leaved  clovers,  and 
that  a  beautiful,  dark-haired  girl  was  gathering 
them  and  bringing  them  to  him  by  handfuls. 
When  he  waked  he  saw  a  kind  face  bending  over 
him,  and  felt  something  pressed  between  his  lips- 
One  of  his  fellow  prisoners  was  trying  to  feed  him 
vith  bread  soaked  in  wine.  Ah,  the  heroes  of 


A  FOUR-LEAVED  CLOVER.  $ 

Libby  Prison!  Almost  all  those  who  came  out 
alive  from  that  hell  of  tortures,  did  so  because 
other  men  had  freely  spent  their  lives  for  them. 

All  Karl's  fellow  prisoners  loved  him.  His  fair 
face,  beautiful  blue  eyes,  and  golden-brown  hair,  his 
broken  English,  and  his  pathetic  patience,  appealed 
to  every  heart.  Every  man  saved  the  soft  part  of 
his  bread  for  him  ;  and  on  this,  with  occasionally  a 
few  drops  of  wine,  he  lived  —  that  is,  he  did  not  die ; 
but  he  did  not  gain ;  the  wound  did  not  heal,  and 
each  day  his  strength  grew  less  and  less,  long  after 
it  had  seemed  that  he  could  not  be  weaker  and  live. 
But  hope  never  forsook  him.  The  four-leaved 
clover,  folded  in  a  bit  of  paper,  was  hid  in  the  lin 
ing  of  his  cap.  Sometimes  he  took  it  out,  showed 
it  to  the  prisoners,  and  told  them  the  story. 

"  It  has  brought  to  me  such  bad  luck,  you  see ; 
but  I  think  it  shall  bring  one  luck  better ;  it  is  a 
true  sign ;  there  is  time  yet." 

The  men  shrugged  their  shoulders.  They 
thought  Karl  a  little  weakened  in  intellect  by  his 
sufferings ;  but  they  did  not  contradict  him. 

Three  months  later  Karl  was  again  lying  on  the 
ground  at  midnight,  alone,  helpless.  An  exchange 
of  prisoners  had  been  arranged,  and  he,  with  most 
of  his  friends,  had  been  carried  to  City  Point. 
They  arrived  there  at  five  in  the  afternoon.  The 
sun  was  still  high  and  hot,  and  Karl  being  one  of 
the  feeblest  of  the  prisoners  was  laid  behind  an 
old  hogshead,  for  shade.  Boat  load  after  boat 


6  A   FOUR-LEAVED   CLOVER. 

load  pushed  off  from  the  wharf ;  but  he  was  not 
taken.  He  could  not  speak  except  in  the  faintest 
whisper;  he  could  not  move ;  there  he  lay,  utterly 
helpless,  hearing  all  the  stir  and  bustle  of  the  load 
ing  of  the  boats,  then  the  plashing  of  the  oars,  then 
the  silence,  then  the  return  of  the  boats,  more 
bustle,  more  departures,  and  then  the  dreadful 
silence  again. 

He  had  been  laid  in  such  a  position  that  he 
could  see  nothing  but  the  planks  of  the  hogshead. 
It  was  old  and  decayed,  and  rats  were  crawling  in 
and  out  of  it.  They  crawled  and  ran  over  Karl, 
and  he  could  not  stir.  The  sun  went  down ;  the 
twilight  deepened  into  darkness.  The  last  boat 
had  gone  ;  in  an  agony  almost  maddening  Karl 
lay  listening  for  the  oars,  and  trying  to  persuade 
himself  that  it  was  not  yet  too  late  for  one  more 
boat  to  come  back. 

A  cold  wind  blew  off  the  water ;  he  had  noth 
ing  over  him  but  a  bit  of  ragged  carpet ;  under  his 
head  an  old  army  coat  rolled  up  for  a  pillow. 

A  rebel  soldier  came  by  and  tried  to  take  this 
away.  Karl  spoke  no  word,  but  lifted  his  eyes  and 
Jooked  him  full  in  the  face.  The  man  dropped  his 
hold  of  the  overcoat,  and  walked  away.  Eight 
o'clock,  —  nine,  —  ten, —  no  sound  on  the  deserted 
wharf  except  the  dull  thud  of  the  waves  against  its 
bides,  and  the  occasional  splash  of  a  fierce  rat, 
swimming  away.  But  Karl  heard  nothing.  He  had 
swooned.  The  fatigue  of  the  trip,  the  exposure  to 


A   FOUR-LEAVED   CLOVER.  7 

the  air,  the  long  day  without  food,  and  still  more 
the  utter  loss  of  hope,  had  drained  his  last  strength. 
However,  in  after  days,  recalling  this  terrible  night, 
he  always  said,  "  I  not  once  my  four  leaf  of  clover 
forget.  I  say  to  myself,  it  is  the  luck  to  go  to 
Heaven  that  it  have  bring  me ;  and  yet  all  the  time, 
I  know  in  my  heart  that  I  am  not  to  die ;  that  I 
have  luck  in  the  over  world  yet." 

Karl  was  right.  By  one  of  those  inexplicable 
but  uncontrollable  impulses,  on  which  the  life  and 
the  death  of  man  have  so  often  hung,  the  young 
officer,  who  had  had  charge  of  moving  the  prisoners 
from  the  wharf  to  the  transport,  was  led  to  return 
once  more  to  make  sure  that  no  man  had  been  left 
behind. 

Karl  was  not  the  only  one.  There  were  two 
others  who-had  been  laid,  as  he  was,  in  the  shade, 
and  out  of  sight,  and  who  had  been  too  weak  to 
call  for  help.  It  was  nearly  midnight  when  these 
three  unconscious  and  apparently  dying  men  were 
carried  on  board  the  ship.  The  other  two  soon 
revived,  but  Karl  knew  nothing  until  he  had  been 
for  two  days  tenderly  nursed  in  one  of  the  Philadel 
phia  hospitals.  Even  then  he  had  only  a  half  con 
sciousness  of  himself,  or  his  surroundings.  Fever 
had  set  in  ;  he  was  delirious  a  great  part  of  the 
time,  for  two  months;  and  when  he  was  not,  his 
broken  English,  and  his  frequent  reference  to  the 
"four  leaf  of  clover,"  prevented  the  nurses  from 
believing  him  fully  sane. 


8  A  FOUR-LEAVED   CLOVER. 

At  last  one  blessed  Sunday,  there  came  to  tha 
hospital  a  young  lady  who  spoke  German.  At  the 
first  sound  of  the  broken  syllables,  she  went  quickly 
to  his  bedside,  and  saying  to  the  nurse,  "I  can 
speak  to  this  poor  fellow  in  his  own  language;" 
she  said  a  few  words  to  Karl  in  German.  The 
effect  was  magical. 

He  lifted  himself  up  suddenly  in  bed,  and  exclaim 
ing  "  Ach  mein  Gott,"  poured  out  such  a  flood  of 
incoherent,  grateful,  bewildered  German  that  the 
best  of  scholars  need  not  have  been  ashamed  at 
failing  to  comprehend  him.  Karl  had  found  a 
friend.  Every  day  she  went  to  see  him,  —  carried 
him  the  food  he  needed/found  out  from  him  the 
names  of  his  friends,  and  wrote  letters  to  them  in 
German. 

One  day  he  said  to  her  :  "  You  cannot  be  my 
girl  of  the  four  leaf  of  clover.  You  have  eyes  like 
the  heaven,  like  mine ;  but  her  eyes  were  like  eyes 
of  a  deer  that  is  afraid." 

Then  he  told  the  story  of  the  clover,  and  showed 
her  the  creased  and  faded  leaf.  , 

It  seemed  almost  a  miracle  that  the  fragile, 
crumbling  little  thing  should  not  have  been  lost 
to  all  these  months.  But  no  Roman  Catholic  dev 
otee  ever  clung  more  superstitiously  to  a  relic  than 
did  Karl  Reutner  to  his  "four  leaf  of  clover." 

Often  in  his  delirious  attacks  he  would  call  for 
it,  and  not  be  pacified  until  the  nurses,  who  had 
'earnt  to  humor  the  whim,  would  put  the  paper 


A  FOUR-LEAVED   CLOVER.  $ 

into  his  hand.  Now  that  he  was  better,  he  kept  it 
carefully  in  the  inner  compartment  of  his  pocket- 
book,  and  rarely  took  it  out.  It  was  enough  to 
look  in  and  see  that  it  was  safe. 

Karl's  only  relatives  in  this  country  were  a 
brother  and  sister  who  lived  in  Chicago.  The 
brother  was  a  manufacturer  of  fringes,  buttons,  and 
small  trimmings,  and  the  sister  had  married  an 
engraver,  also  a  German.  They  were  industrious 
working-people,  preserving  in  their  new  homes  all 
the  simple-hearted  ways  of  their  life  in  the  old 
world.  When  Karl  was  drafted  for  the  war,  they 
had  tried  in  vain  to  induce  him  to  let  them  put 
their  little  savings  together  to  buy  a  substitute  for 
him.  "  No,  no,  I  will  not  have  it,"  he  said ;  "  my 
life  is  no  more  than  another  man's  life  that  it 
should  be  saved.  There  are  brothers  and  sisters 
to  all.  I  have  no  wife ;  it  is  the  men  without  wives 
that  must  go  to  fight."  On  these  two  simple  house 
holds  the  news  from  Gettysburg  fell  with  crushing 
weight. 

"  Karl  Reutner,  killed ; "  only  three  words,  and 
there  were  long  columns  of  names  with  the  same 
bitter  word  following  them.  But  into  few  houses 
Was  carried  greater  sorrow  than  into  these.  Wil- 
heim  Reutner  and  Karl  were  twins.  From  their  ba 
byhood  they  had  never  been  separated,  had  never 
disagreed.  Together  they  had  come  to  the  new 
world  to  s?ek  their  fortunes;  together  they  had 
slowly  built  ip  the  business  which  their  father  had 


10  A   FOUR-LEAVED   CLOVER. 

followed  in  Berlin ;  they  lived  together ;  and  Wil- 
helm's  babies  knew  no  difference  in  love  and  care 
between  their  uncle  Karl  and  their  father.  The 
sister  was  much  younger ;  Wilhelm  and  Karl  had 
laid  by  their  first  earnings  to  bring  her  out  to  join 
them,  and  for  some  years  they  had  all  lived  in  one 
family  in  such  peace  and  happiness  as  are  not 
often  seen  among  laboring  people  of  American 
birth.  No  thought  of  discontent,  no  dream  of  am 
bition  for  a  higher  position,  entered  their  heads. 
Home  love,  comfort,  industry,  and  honesty  —  these 
were  the  watchwords  of  their  lives,  the  key-notes 
of  all  their  actions.  When  Wilhelm  and  Annette 
were  married,  there  was  no  change  in  this  atmos 
phere  of  content  and  industry,  except  an  immeas 
urable  increase  of  happiness  as  child  after  child 
came,  bringing  the  ineffable  sunshine  of  babyhood 
into  the  two  households. 

Just  before  the  sad  news  of  Karl's  death,  a  new 
and  very  great  element  of  enjoyment  had  been 
introduced  into  Wilhelm's  family.  Margaret  War 
ren  had  come  to  live  in  his  house. 

Margaret  Warren  was  the  daughter  of  a  Congre- 
gationalist  minister.  Her  life  had  been  passed  in 
small  country  villages  in  the  Western  States.  She 
had  known  privations,  hardships,  discomforts  of 
all  sorts  ;  her  father  was  a  gentleman  and  a  scholar, 
and  wretchedly  out  of  place  in  the  pioneer  western 
life  ;  he  did  not  understand  the  people  ;  the  people 
misinterpreted  him ;  his  heart  was  full  of  love  for 


A   FOUR-LEAVED   CLOVER.  II 

*heir  souls,  and  a  burning  desire  to  bring  them  to 
-  !hrist ;  but  he  wounded  their  self  love,  and  they 
upended  his  instincts,  at  every  step ;  the-  conse- 
q  <jnce  was,  that  he  found  himself  at  a  middle  age 
wuM  an  invalid  wife  and  six  children,  a  disappointed, 
uns  -ccessful  man.  Margaret  was  the  eldest  daugh 
ter,  *nd  for  the  first  fourteen  years  of  her  life, 
her  Bather's  constant  companion.  The  only  un- 
alloytJ  pleasure  he  had  was  in  the  careful  train 
ing  of  jer  mind.  Margaret  Warren  was,  at  sixteen, 
a  rare  ^.rl ;  she  was  far  better  fitted  than  most  boys 
are,  to  %.iter  college.  But  all  this  learning  did  not 
in  the  le^st  unfit  her  for  practical  duties.  She  was 
her  mother's  stay  as  well  as  her  father's  delight ; 
she  understood  housekeeping  as  well  as  she  did 
Greek,  and  found  as  true  a  pleasure  in  contriving 
how  to  make  a  garment  out  of  slender  material,  as 
in  demonstrating  a  problem  in  Euclid.  Until  her 
seventeenth  year  she  had  been  unflaggingly  brave, 
hopeful,  content,  in  this  hard  life.  But  as  she  saw 
the  years  slowly  making  all  the  burdens  heavier  \ 
her  mother  growing  feebler,  the  family  growing 
larger,  she  began  to  ask  herself  what  the  end  would 
be ;  and  she  found  no  answer  to  the  question.  A 
vague  feeling,  that  she  herself  ought  to  find  some 
way  of  making  her  mother  and  her  five  little 
brothers  and  sisters  more  comfortable,  haunted  her 
thoughts  by  night  and  day.  She  saw  the  secret  of 
her  father's  failure  more  clearly  than  the  most 
discontented  of  his  parishioners  ever  saw  it.  She 


12  A  FOUR-LEADED   CLOSER. 

knew  things  could  never  be  any  better.  '  Oh,  \vhy 
did  papa  ever  undertake  to  preach,"  she  said  to 
herself,  over  and  over ;  her  affectionate  reverence 
for  him  made  her  feel  guilty  in  the  thought.  Yet 
it  pressed  upon  her  more  and  more  heavily. 

"  Each  place  we  go  to  is  a  little  poorer  than  the 
one  before  it,"  she  repeated,  "and  yet,  each  year 
we  need  a  little  more  money  instead  of  less ;  and 
mamma  is  growing  weaker  and  more  tired  every 
day.  If  I  could  only  get  a  good  school  I  could 
earn  as  much  money  as  papa  does  by  preaching. 
I  know  T  could  teach  well ;  and  then  I  could  learn 
too."  Unconsciously  to  herself,  the  desire  for  a 
wider  knowledge  and  experience  of  life  entered 
largely  into  Margaret's  desire  to  be  a  teacher.  She 
had  uncommon  executive  ability,  and,  without 
knowing  it,  was  beginning  to  be  cramped  by  her 
limited  sphere. 

Through  the  help  of  a  clergyman  in  Chicago,  an 
old  class-mate  of  Mr.  Warren's,  Margaret  realized 
her  dream.  It  was  a  bitter  day  for  the  little  house 
hold  in  the  parsonage  when  she  left  them.  With 
tears  streaming  down  their  cheeks  the  children 
clung  to  her,  and  her  mother  was  pale  and  speech 
less  with  grief ;  but  Margaret  bravely  kept  back  all 
traces  of  her  own  sorrow,  and  went  away  with  a 
smiling  face.  The  next  day  she  wrote  to  her 
mother :  — 

"  Dear,  precious,  tired  Mamma;  it  would  break 
my  heart  to  think  of  you  working  away  without  me 


A   FOUR-LEAVED   CLOVER.  13 

to  help  you,  and  when  I  recall  your  face  on  the 
door-step  yesterday,  if  I  were  not  home  up  by  an 
instinct  that  I  shall  very  soon  help  you  much  more 
than  I  could  at  home.  Only  think,  I  can  already 
send  you  seventy-five  dollars  every  quarter — half 
as  much  as  papa's  salary  ;  and  I  know  I  shall  very 
soon  save  a  great  deal  more." 

Margaret  was  right.  Such  a  teacher  as  she  had 
only  to  be  known  to  be  recognized.  Her  text-book 
training  had  been  singularly  thorough  and  accu 
rate,  but  this  was  the  least  of  her  qualifications  as 
a  teacher.  In  the  first  place  she  loved  children 
with  all  her  heart ;  in  the  second  place,  she  loved 
nature  and  truth  with  the  passion  of  a  devotee. 
That  life  could  be  dull  to  a  human  being  was  a 
mystery  to  her;  every  new  discovery  in  art  or 
science  was  a  stimulus  and  delight  to  her ;  the  sim 
plest  every  day  fact  had  significance  and  beauty  to 
her ;  her  own  existence  was  rich,  full,  harmonious, 
and  out  of  her  abundance  she  gave  unconsciously 
far  more  than  she  dreamed  to  every  being  that 
came  in  contact  with  her.  There  was  not  a  pupil 
in  her  school  who  was  not  more  or  less  electrified 
by  her  enthusiasm  and  love.  The  standard  of 
scholarship  was  rapidly  raised  ;  but  this  was  a  less 
test  of  her  power  than  the  elevation  and  stimulus 
jiven  to  the  whole  moral  tone  of  the  school  in 

r> 

which  she  taught.  Teachers  as  well  as  pupils 
were  lilted  to  a  higher  plane  by  inter course  with 
her. 


14  A   FOUR -LEAVED   CLOVER. 

At  the  end  of  two  years  Margaret  was  the  prin 
cipal  of  the  highest  school  in  the  city,  at  a  salary 
nearly  twice  as  large  as  her  father's.     But  her  am 
bition  was  not  yet  satisfied.     She  longed  to  be  at 
the  head  of  a  school  of  her  own,  where  she  should 
be  untrammeled  in  all  respects,  and  free  to  carry 
out  her  own  theories.     This  was  her  one  air-castle, 
and,  with  a  view  to  this,  she  planned  all  her  life. 
Three  hours  every  day  she  spent  in  hard  study  or 
reading.     Only    the    best   of    constitutions    could 
have  borne  such  a  strain  ;  but  Margaret  had  come, 
on  her  mother's  side,  of  an  indomitable  New  Eng 
land  stock.     It  was  in  carrying  out  this  scheme  of 
educating  herself  more  perfectly  that  Margaret  had 
come   to    live  in  Wilhelm    Reutner's  house.     Wil- 
helm's  two  little    daughters   had   been  in  her  first 
school.     They  vyere  singularly  gentle  and  well-bred 
children,  and  held  themselves  always  a  little  aloof 
from    their   companions.     One    day  Margaret  dis 
covered   accidentally   that   they   spoke    both    Ger 
man   and    French   fluently.     "How  is   this,    little 
ones,"  she  said;   who   taught   you   so    many  lan 
guages  ? 

"  Oh,  papa  always  speaks  to  us  in  German,  and 
mamma  in  French,"  said  they. 

"  And  Uncle  Karl  coo,"  added  the  youngest, 
with  a  sad  face.  «  Uncle  Karl  that  has  gone  to  the 
war." 

That  afternoon  Margaret  walked  home  with  the 
children  from  school.  As  they  drew  near  a  block 


A   FOUR-LEAVED   CLOVER.  15 

of  small  two-story  wooden  houses,  Margaret's  eye 
was  attracted  by  two  balconies  full  of  flowers. 
"  Oh,  how  lovely  !  "  she  exclaimed. 

"  That 's  our  house.  Those  are  Uncle  Karl's 
flowers,"  cried  both  the  children  in  a  breath ;  "  we 
Nke  all  the  care  of  them  now  he  has  gone.  He  said 
we  might." 

The  front  of  the  little  house  was  like  a  terraced 
garden.  Margaret  had  never  seen  anything  like  it. 
Every  window-sill  had  its  box  of  flowers,  and  above 
the  door  was  a  balcony  full  to  overflowing  of  gera 
niums,  nasturtiums,  fuchsias,  and  white  flox.  Mar 
garet  stood  for  so  long  a  time  looking  at  them 
that  the  children  grew  impatient,  and  pulled  her 
with  gentle  force  into  the  house. 

Annette  came  forward  with  a  shy,  sweet  courtesy 
to  meet  the  unexpected  guest. 

"  We  talk  your  name  very  much,  Mademoiselle," 
she  said ; "  to  see  you  will  be  to  the  father  a  happi 
ness."  Then  Wilhelm  thanked  her  with  warm  fer 
vor  for  her  goodness  to  the  children,  and  before  he 
had  finished  speaking,  the  children,  who  had  disap 
peared  upon  entering  the  house,  came  running 
back  with  their  hands  full  of  scarlet,  yellow,  and 
white  blossoms,  and  showered  them  upon  Mar 
garet's  lap. 

"  But  my  children,  my  children  !  "  remonstrated 
their  mother. 

"Uncle  Karl  said  we  might  pick  always  some 
'or  a  pretty  lady,"  cried  they;  "and  is  not  the 


1 6  A   FOUR-LEAVED   CLOVER. 

teacher  pretty?     Did  we  not  tell  you  she  looked 
like  the  Madonna  ? " 

"  It  was  not  the  first  time  that  Margaret's  face 
had  been  compared  to  that  of  the  Sistine  Madonna ; 
always,  however,  with  a  qualification,  for  that  calm 
and  placid  Madonna  had  far  less  joy  in  her  face 
than  was  in  Margaret  Warren's  bright  counte 
nance. 

"Yes,  the  children  say  rightly,  young  lady. 
They  have  done  well  to  bring  you  the  flowers,  as 
our  far  away  Karl  would  have  done,"  said  Wilhelm, 
gravely,  still  standing  before  Margaret. 

Margaret  felt  as  if  she  were  in  a  dream.  She 
had  come  expecting  to  find  two  plain,  honest  work 
ing  people,  to  whom  she  could  without  difficulty 
say  that  she  would  like  to  come  and  board  in  their 
family  for  the  sake  of  learning  to  speak  German 
and  French.  Instead,  she  felt  as  if  she  had  been 
received  by  a  prince  and  princess  in  disguise  :  so 
subtle  a  power  have  noble  thoughts,  simplicity  of 
heart,  and  love  of  beauty  to  invest  men  and  women 
with  a  dignity  greater  than  splendor  can  give. 

Margaret  made  stammering  words  of  her  re 
quest.  It  was  received  with  great  surprise,  but 
with  the  same  dignified  simplicity  of  demeanor  and 
speech. 

"  We  have  never  thought  that  a  stranger  could 
come  under  our  roof,  and  pay  for  the  food,"  said 
Annette,  with  a  shade  of  pride  in  her  voice ;  and 
t  might  be  that  our  living  would  displease  you." 


A   FOUR-LEAVED   CLOVER.  I/ 

"The  teacher  is  not  as  a  stranger,  when  An 
nettechen  and  Mariska  so  love  her,"  said  Wil- 
helm,  who  was  on  Margaret's  side  from  the  begin 
ning.  "  But  do  you  remember,  young  lady,  that 
you  have  never  known  such  ways  as  are  our 
ways  ?  It  would  be  a  great  shame  to  my  heart  if 
you  were  not  at  ease  in  my  house;  and  we  can 
not  change." 

With  every  word  that  Wilhelm  and  Annette  spoke, 
Margaret  grew  more  and  more  anxious  to  carry 
her  point. 

"  It  is  you  who  do  not  know,"  she  said,  "  how 
very  simply  and  plainly  I  have  always  lived  at 
home,  and  it  is  so  that  I  would  wish  to  live  even  if 
I  had  much  money.  My  father  is  a  poor  minister  ; 
my  mother  has  never,  in  all  her  life,  had  so  pretty 
a  home  as  this." 

And  Margaret  sighed,  as  she  looked  around  at 
the  picturesque  little  sitting-room  ;  its  white  porce 
lain  stove  was  now  converted  into  a  sort  of  altar, 
holding  two  high  candlesticks,  made  out  of  the 
polished  horns  of  antelopes  —  a  crimrson  candle 
in  one,  and  a  yellow  one  in  the  other,  and  be 
tween  the  two  a  square  stone  jar  of  dark,  blue 
and  gray  Flemish  ware,  filled  with  white  ama 
ranths.  Low  oaken  chests,  simply  but  quaintly 
carved,  stood  on  each  side  the  stove,  and  a  row 
of  tiles,  maroon  colored  and  white,  with  pictures 
of  storks,  and  herons,  and  edelweiss  flowers,  and 
pine  trees  on  them,  was  above  each  chest.  The 


f8  A   FOUR-LEAVED   CLOVER 

furniture  was  all  of  oak,  old  and  dark.  It  had 
belonged  to  Annette's  mother,  in  Lorraine.  The 
floor  was  of  yellow  pine,  bright  and  shining,  and 
gay  braided  rugs,  with  borders  of  tufted  worsted 
balls,  covered  the  greater  part  of  it.  Flowers 
rilled  every  window,  and  on  the  walls  were  prints 
of  Albert  Durer,  of  Teniers,  of  Holbein,  of  Ra 
phael  —  cheap  prints,  but  rendering  the  masters' 
works  truthfully.  In  one  corner  stood  a  large 
violoncello,  and  in  another,  above  a  shelf  filled 
with  music,  hung  a  violin  case  wreathed  with  ever 
greens.  This  was  Karl's.  In  the  other  two  cor 
ners  were  odd  oaken  cabinets  with  glass  doors, 
and  a  figure  of  St.  Nicholas  on  the  top.  On  the 
shelves  were  wax  and  glass  and  wooden  toys. 
These  were  the  Christmas  gifts  of  many  years. 
The  whole  room  was  like  a  bit  of  the  quiet  Ger 
man  Tyrol  set  in  the  centre  of  the  bustling  and 
breathless  American  city;  but  Margaret  did  not 
know  this.  She  only  felt  a  bewildered  sense  of 
repose  and  delight  and  wonder,  mixed  with  a 
yearning  recognition  of  the  beautiful  life  which 
must  be  lived  in  this  simple  home. 

When  Annette  heard  that  Margaret's  father  was 
a  poor  pastor,  her  face  lighted  up.  "  My  mother 
also  was  the  daughter  of  a  pastor,"  she  said  ;  and 
is  it  then  that  the  good  pastors  are  poor  in  this 
country  also  ?  "  Annette  had  thus  far  known  only 
•ich  and  prosperous  ones  in  the  rich  and  pros* 
perous  city. 


A   FOUR-LEAVED   CLOVER.  IQ 

Wilhelm,  also,  felt  that  a  barrier  was  removed 
between  him  and  the  "teacher"  when  he  heard 
that  she  had  lived  as  a  daughter  lives,  in  the  home 
of  a  poor  country  pastor.  He  no  longer  feared 
that  she  could  not  be  content  in  his  house ;  and  his 
heart  had  been  strangely  warm  towards  Margaret 
from  the  first  moment. 

"  There  is  Karl's  room,  which  would  be  sunny 
and  warm,  if  it  were  not  too  small,"  he  said  inquir 
ingly,  turning  to  Annette. 

"  And  the  big  closet  with  a  window — would  it 
not  be  that  the  teacher  could  use  when  she  would 
study  ?  said  Annette,  who  remembered  the  little 
room  in  which  her  grandfather  had  kept  his  few 
books,  and  sat  when  he  was  writing,  and  must  not 
be  interrupted. 

Margaret's  face  flushed  with  pleasure.  The  mat 
ter  was  evidently  settled.  It  was  already  beginning 
to  be  a  matter  of  hospitality  in  these  kindly  hearts, 
and  the  only  question  was  how  they  could  make 
her  happiest  and  most  comfortable.  The  children 
danced  with  joy,  and  taking  Margaret's  hands  in 
theirs,  they  drew  her  towards  the  stairway,  saying : 

u  Come,  see  Uncle  Karl's  room ;  it  is  the  nicest 
in  the  house." 

It  was,  indeed,  a  lovely  room,  with  its  one  win 
dow  looking  out  on  the  great  blue  lake. 

"  It  is  too  small,"  said  Annette,  as  she  stood  with 
Margaret  on  the  threshold  ;  "  but  there  is  also  this 
closet,"  and  she  threw  open  a  door  into  a  second 


2O  A  FOUR-LEAVED   CLOVER. 

still   smaller  room,  also  with    one  window  to   the 
east. 

"  Oh  ! "  exclaimed  Margaret.  "  Can  you  spare 
them  both  ?  That  will  be  perfect.  My  good  friends, 
I  cannot  thank  you  enough." 

Wilhelm  looked  at  Margaret  with  a  steadfast, 
half-dreamy  gaze.  The  German  nature  is  a  strangely 
magnetic  one,  under  all  its  phlegmatic  and  prosaic 
exterior. 

"  I  have  a  belief  that  it  is  I  and  my  house  who 
are  laid  under  debt  by  you,  teacher,"  he  said,  with 
singular  earnestness. 

So  it  was  settled  that  Margaret  should  come  to 
live  with  the  Reutners,  and  should  have  Karl's 
room  till  he  returned  from  the  war. 

She  wished  to  come  at  once,  but  Wilhelm  insisted 
on  a  week's  interval.  Annette  looked  puzzled  ;  she 
knew  of  no  reason  for  the  delay ;  but  Wilhelm  was 
firm,  and  Margaret  did  not  press  the  matter. 

Seven  days  later,  when  Margaret  went  home 
again,  with  Annettechen  and  Mariska,  —  this  time 
really  going  home, — she  hardly  knew  the  little 
rooms.  Wilhelm  had  painted  the  walls  of  a  soft 
gray ;  he  had  taken  away  the  closet  door,  made  the 
door-way  into  an  arch,  and  hung  it  with  curtains  of 
plain  gray  cloth,  of  the  same  shade  as  the  walls. 
A  narrow  strip  of  plain  crimson  paper  bordered 
the  rooms ;  a  set  of  plain  book  shelves  on  the  wall 
were  edged  with  the  same  crimson  paper.  A  small 
table,  with  a  crimson  cloth,  and  a  comfortable  arm- 


A   FOUR-LEAVED   CLOVER.  21 

chair,  also  of  crimson,  stood  in  the  room  which 
had  been  called  the  closet.  Under  each  window 
he  had  put  a  larger  balcony  shelf,  and  filled  it  with 
gay  flowers,  such  as  were  on  the  shelves  below. 

Margaret's  eyes  filled  with  tears.  She  turned, 
and  saw  Wilhelm  and  Annette  standing  behind  her, 
their  faces  glowing  with  welcome  and  hope  that 
she  would  be  pleased. 

"  Do  not  try  to  say  that  you  like  it,  teacher," 
said  Wilhelm ;  "  we  see  in  your  eyes  that  you  are 
more  glad  than  we  had  hoped  we  could  make  you." 
And  with  a  delicacy  which  touched  Margaret  even 
more  deeply  than  she  had  been  touched  by  the 
adorning  of  her  rooms,  he  drew  Annette  away,  and 
left  her  alone. 

One  month  from  this  day,  Wilhelm,  Annette,  and 
Margaret  were  sitting  alone  in  the  little  sitting-room. 
The  children  had  gone  to  bed.  It  was  a  sultry 
evening.  Annette  had  put  out  the  large  lamp,  and 
Wilhelm  was  reading  the  newspaper  by  the  light  of 
a  candle  in  one  of  the  Tyrolean  candlesticks.  Sud 
denly  he  groaned  aloud,  dropped  the  candlestick, 
and  fell  back  in  his  chair.  The  candle  was  extin 
guished,  and  they  were  left  in  darkness.  Help 
lessly  the  two  women  groped  for  another  light,  Wil- 
helm's  heavy  breathing  terrifying  them  more  and 
more  every  moment,  and  poor  Annette  crying  :  — 

"  Wilhelm,  oh,  my  Wilhelm  !  He  is  dead  !  He 
's  dead ! " 

Wilhelm  Reutner  was  a  strong  and  robust  man. 


22  A   FOUR-LEAVED   CLOVER. 

It  was  the  first  time  in  his  life  that  he  had  ever 
lost  his  consciousness.  But  the  fatal  words,  "  Karl 
Reutner —  killed,"  had  flashed  upon  his  eyes  with 
an  indescribable  shock  of  surprise  and  anguish. 
He  had  not  known  that  Karl's  regiment  was  at 
Gettysburg.  He  was  reading  the  accounts  of  the 
battle  with  no  especial  interest,  and  it  was  by  ac 
cident  that  he  had  glanced  at  the  lists  of  killed 
and  wounded.  When  he  came  to  himself  he  gasped 
out,  "  Karl,  Karl ! "  and  then  fainted  again. 

"  Oh  !  our  Karl  is  killed  !  "  cried  Annette  ;  "  it 
will  kill  my  Wilhelm,  too  ;  "  and  she  fell  on  her  knees, 
clasping  her  husband's  head  to  her  bosom,  and  call 
ing  :  "  But,  Wilhelm,  thou  hast  the  little  ones, 
and  thou  hast  me.  Oh,  do  not  die,  darling  !  " 

He  soon  revived,  but  could  not  speak.  He 
turned  most  piteous  looks  first  at  Annette,  then  at 
Margaret. 

"Yes,  Mr.  Reutner,"  said  Margaret,  who  had 
taken  up  the  paper,  and  saw  the  name,  "we  know 
it,  too.  It  is  your  dear  brother's  name.  But  you 
must  remember  that  these  lists  are  often  wrong. 
A  great  many  people  have  been  reported  killed 
who  have  been  only  taken  prisoners.  I  do  not 
believe  your  brother  is  dead." 

Wilhelm  groaned.  Hope  could  find  no  place  in 
his  heart.  "  Oh  why  did  I  not  compel  him  to  stay 
at  home  ?  "  he  said.  "  What  is  this  cursed  country 
to  us  that  we  should  die  for  it  ? " 

"  Oh  !  yes,"  sobbed  Annette,  "  we    all    knelt   to 


A   FOUR-LEAVED   CLOVER.  2$ 

Karl !  Wilhelm  had  tears  like  the  rain  on  his  face, 
to  beseech  that  he  would  let  us  pay  that  another 
man  should  go ;  but  he  said  that  the  man  with  nd 
wife  should  go  to  the  fight,  and  he  was  angry  at  the 
last,  iven  with  Wilhelm. 

':  1  think  your  brother  was  very  right,"  said  Mar- 
gaiet  quietly,  taking  Wilhelm's  hand  in  hers  ;  "if 
he  were  my  own  brother,  even  if  he  had  been 
killed,  I  should  still  rejoice  that  he  had  been  noble 
enough  to  give  his  life  for  the  right." 

"For  the  Fatherland,  yes,"  said  Wilhelm;  "but 
not  for  this  land  we  need  not  to  love.  It  is  not 
anything  to  us,  except  that  we  must  live.  We  are 
Germans  ;  we  are  not  of  your  blood  ; "  and  Wilhelm 
looked  almost  fiercely  at  Margaret. 

"  All  men  are  of  one  blood,  when  the  fight  is  that 
all  men  may  be  free,  my  friend,"  said  Margaret,  still 
more  quietly,  with  a  voice  trembling  with  sympathy, 
and  yet  firm  with  enthusiasm.  "  Whatever  land  it 
had  been  which  first  began  the  fight  for  freedom  to 
all,  1  would  send  my  brothers  to  die  under  its  ban 
ners.  I  would  go  myself !  But  I  do  not  believe 
your  Karl  is  dead.  I  cannot  tell  why  I  have  so 
strong  a  feeling  that  he  is  still  alive,  but  I  have  no 
doubt  of  it  —  none  !  " 

Margaret's  hopefulness  was  not  shared  b)  Wil- 
helm..  He  refused  to  listen  to  any  of  her  sugges 
tions.  Weeks  later  a  letter  came  from  Karl's 
tnend,  Gustave  Boehmer,  who  was  in  the  same 
company,  and  was  lying  in  the  trench,  next  to  Karl, 


24  A   FOUR-LEAVED   CLOVER. 

when  he  was  shot.  Wilhelm  read  the  'etter  aloud, 
without  a  tear  or  a  sob,  and  said,  turning  to  Mar 
garet,  "You  see  the  brother's  knowledge  was  more 
sure  than  the  stranger's.  I  knew  in  that  first  second 
that  my  Karl  was  gone." 

A  black  ribbon  was  twined  in  the  evergreen 
wreath  on  Karl's  violin,  a  wreath  of  white  immor 
telles  put  around  Karl's  picture  on  the  wall,  ar.d 
the  little,  grief-stricken  -household  went  on  with  its 
daily  life,  brave  and  resigned.  But  Wilhelm  Reut- 
ner's  face  was  altered  from  that  day ;  night  after 
night  the  little  children  gazed  wistfully  into  his 
eyes,  missing  the  joyous  look  from  his  smile  and 
the  merry  ring  from  his  voice.  Night  after  night 
poor  Annette  had  cried  as  she  had  cried  on  the 
night  when  the  sad  news  came,  "  Lieblinj,  UK  u 
ha^t  the  little  ones  and  thou  hast  me  :  do  not  die 
for  the  love  of  Karl."  And  Wilhelm  answered, 
"  Be  patient,  I  had  not  thought  it  could  be  so  hard. 
The  good  God  will  make  it  easier,  in  time.  It 
must  be  that  the  twin  bond  is  strong  after  death 
as  it  is  before  birth.  I  feel  my  Karl  all  the  while 
more  near  than  when  he  was  alive." 

On  the  wall  of  Karl's  room,  now  Margaret's, 
there  hung  an  oval  picture  of  the  beautiful  Kon- 
igsee  Lake  in  Bavaria.  On  the  margin  of  the  piint 
was  drawn,  in  rough  crayon,  a  girl's  head.  It  was 
a  spirited  drawing,  and  the  head  had  great  beauty. 
Around  the  picture  was  a  wreath  of  edelweiss. 
\nnette  had  told  Margaret  that  this  head  was  the 


A   FOUR-LEAVED    CLOVER.  2$ 

portrait  of  a  young  girl  in  Ischl  whom  Karl  had 
loved  when  they  were  little  more  than  children. 
She  had  died  just  before  Karl  and  Wilhelm  had 
set  out  for  America,  and  this  rough  and  unfinished 
sketch,  drawn  by  Karl  one  day,  half  in  sport,  when 
they  were  sailing  on  the  Konigsee,  was  the  only 
memento  he  had  of  her.  The  edelweiss  flowers 
Karl  had  gathered  on  the  very  glacier  of  the  Watz- 
man,  the  day  before  he  bade  good-by  to  his  home. 

Ever  since  Margaret  had  occupied  the  room,  she 
had  found  a  special  fascination  in  this  picture  ; 
but  now  she  was  conscious  of  a  new  magnetism  in 
it.  Every  morning  the  first  rays  of  the  rising  sun 
slanted  across  this  picture,  bringing  out  into  full 
relief  each  line  of  the  girl's  head,  and  still  more, 
every  fine,  velvety  fibre  of  the  snowy  petals  of  the 
edelweiss.  The  picture  hung  at  the  foot  of  the 
bed,  and  sometimes  when  Margaret  first  opened 
her  eyes  and  saw  this  golden  light  on  the  lake  and 
the  girl's  face  and  the  edelweiss  wreath,  she  fancied 
that  there  were  rhythmic  sounds  in  the  light ;  that 
she  heard  voices  fainter  than  faintest  whispers,  and 
yet  clear  and  distinct  as  flute  notes  in  the  air, 
speaking  words  she  did  not  understand.  She  grew 
almost  afraid  of  the  picture  ;  it  seemed  a  link  be 
tween  her  and  the  unseen  world.  Yet  she  never 
nelieved  that  the  link  was  with  Karl.  It  was  with 
the  unknown  maiden  of  Ischl ;  the  immortal  Love 
Blossoms  seemed  to  bind  it,  to  symbolize  it,  and 
'31  the  tremulous  sunlight  to  utter  it.  Margaret 


26  A   FOUR-LEAVED   CLOVER. 

was  not  superstitious,  and  she  had  not  a  touch  of 

sentimentalism  in   her  nature  ;   but  it  was    out  of 

her  power  to  shake  off  the  influence  of  this  picture. 

"  Konigsee "  floated  through   her  brain,  even   in 

school  hours,  like  the  refrain  of  a  song ;  when  she 

looked    off   into  the    sky,  the  clouds  took  shapes 

like  the  shape  of  the  sides   of  the  Konigsee,  and 

whenever  she   gazed  on  the  blue  lake,  she  found 

her  fancy  walling  it  in  with  mountains,  like  those 

which  walled  Konigsee.     By  night  she  dreamed  of 

sailing  in  shadowy  boats,  with  the  shadowy  maiden, 

on  Konigse;    and  she  waked  from  these  dreams 

only  to  find  the  sunbeams  on  her  wall  lighting  up 

the   shadowy  maiden's  head,  and   making  golden 

bars    across    the  water  of  Konigsee.     The   young 

maiden    of    Ischl    had    loved    Karl    Reutner   very 

much  ;  she  loved  him  still  ;  else,  whence  came  this 

thrilling   personality   in  the   mute    picture    record 

of   her  and  of  the  sunny  day  when    she  and  her 

lover  had  sailed  on  Konigsee  !     Had  Karl  gone  to 

her?     Had   her   love    drawn    and    lifted   him    up, 

past  the  stars,  and  over  the  golden  wall  of  Heaven  ? 

Were  they  together  now  ? 

^  Constantly  Margaret  asked  herself  these  ques 
tions,  and  constantly  one  answer  came.  "  No ! 
Karl  is  alive."  Ah,  well  must  the  shadowy  maiden 
of  Ischl  have  loved  Karl !  Well  does  she  love  him 
still.  Else,  how  does  she  always  and  ever,  through 
the  mute  picture  record  of  that  summer  day  on 
Konigsee,  say  to  Margaret,  "  Karl  is  not  dead  1 
Karl  will  come  home  ?  " 


A   FOUR-LEAVED   CLOVER.  2J 

Six  months  had  passed.  Karl's  name  was  oft- 
ner  spoken  now  in  his  home.  Wilhelm  could  bear 
the  sound.  The  faithful  little  children  stil1  called 
their  geraniums  and  fuchsias  and  roses  "Uncle 
Karl's  flowers,"  and  laid  the  fairest  buds  and  blos 
soms  by  the  "  teacher's  "  plate  at  breakfast.  Mar 
garet  was  as  thoroughly  at  home  in  the  family  as 
she  could  have  been  in  her  own  father's  house, 
and  yet  there  was  a  shade  of  reverential  deference 
in  Wilhelm's  and  Annette's  manner  towards  her, 
and  in  their  regard  for  her.  They  loved  her  as  a 
sister,  but  it  was  as  they  would  love  a  sister  who 
had  become  a  princess.  To  their  simple  and  un 
learned  souls  her  acquirements  seemed  greater 
than  they  really  were,  and  a  certain  unconscious 
reticence  of  nature  which  Margaret  had,  in  spite  of 
all  her  overflowing  enthusiasm  and  frankness,  sur 
rounded  her  with  a  barrier  of  personal  dignity 
which  every  one  felt,  and  which  no  one  ventured  to 
disregard. 

On  New  Year's  night  Margaret  returned  home 
late  from  a  party.  As  she  drew  near  the  house 
she  saw  to  her  surprise  a  bright  light  burning  in 
the  sitting-room.  Fearing  that  some  one  was  ill, 
she  opened  the  door  of  the  room  quickly  ;  a  strange 
sight  met  her  eyes.  Wilhelm  was  on  his  knees, 
his  face  uplifted,  and  tears  streaming  down  his 
cheeks.  Annette  stood  opposite  him,  with  her 
hands  clasped,  looking  at  him  with  an  expression 


28  A  FOUR-LEAVED   CLOVHR, 

of  unspeakable  rapture.  Neither  of  them  spoke  as 
Margaret  approached. 

"  Oh,  what  is  it  ?  What  has  happened  ?  "  ex 
claimed  Margaret,  too  terrified  by  their  strange  at 
titudes  to  see  that  their  expression  was  one  of 
great  joy,  and  not  of  grief. 

Wilhelm  stretched  one  hand  towards  the  table, 
and  his  lips  moved,  but  no  sound  came  from  them. 
Annette  turned  to  the  table,  took  up  a  letter,  and 
gave  it  to  Margaret,  saying,  "  Karl  !  Karl  !  He  is 
alive.  He  comes  home." 

Margaret  sank  into  a  chair.  Strong  as  her  in 
stinct  had  been  that  Karl  was  not  dead,  the  cer 
tainty  came  to  her  with  almost  as  great  a  shock  of 
surprise  as  it  had  come  to  his  brother  and  sister. 

The  letter  was  from  Karl's  friend,  the  young 
lady  in  the  Philadelphia  Hospital.  It  was  long 
and  full,  giving  an  account  of  all  that  Karl  had 
suffered  in  the  months  in  Libby  Prison,  of  his 
almost  miraculous  preservation  at  City  Point,  and 
of  his  present  convalescence.  At  the  close  she 
said  :  — 

"  The  surgeon  says  that  if  Karl  has  no  draw 
backs  he  will  be  well  enough  to  come  home  in  a 
month.  He  most  earnestly  advises  that  you  do 
not  come  here.  Karl  is  absolutely  comfortable, 
and  wants  for  nothing ;  the  excitement  of  talking 
would  do  him  great  harm.  He  himself  begs  that 
you  will  not  come.  I  will  see  h'rn  every  day,  and 
write  to  you  every  week." 


A   FOUR-LEAVED   CLOVER  2$ 

At  the  bottom  of  the  sheet  Karl  had  v/ritten  :  — 

"  Beloveds,  do  not  come  to  me.  I  will  the 
sooner  come  to  you.  God  be  praised. 

"  KARL.  " 

Grief  has  no  tears  like  joy.  A  stranger  would 
have  supposed  for  the  next  few  days  that  the  whole 
household  was  in  sorrow.  Everybody's  face  was 
red  with  weeping.  Nobody  could  speak  in  a  steady 
voice.  Wilhelm  sat  silent,  by  the.  hour,  looking 
into  the  fire,  and  wiping  his  eyes. 

"  Oh,  Miss  Margaret,"  he  said  ;  "  Oh  teacher, 
taught  of  some  angel,  why  did  I  not  believe  you  ? 
Why  is  it  that  you,  who  have  not  known  our  Karl, 
should  be  the  one  to  be  told,  and  not  I  ?  " 

Margaret  was  on  the  point  of  telling  him  that 
Ahe  maiden  of  Ischl  had  told  her  because  she  found 
her  sleeping  in  Karl's  room.  But  a  vague  shame 
sealed  her  lips.  She  need  not  have  hesitated.  It 
would  not  have  seemed  a  strange  or  an  incredible 
thing  to  Wilhelm  Reutner. 

The  next  letters  were  not  so  cheering.  The  ex 
citement  of  hearing,  even  by  letter,  from  his  friends, 
had  caused  a  slight  relapse  of  Karl's  fever,  and  the 
physician  now  thought  that  it  might  be  six  weeks 
before  he  could  safely  travel.  It  was  a  hard  thing 
for  Wilhelm  to  sit  quietly  at  home  and  wait  for  so 
many  days.  Only  Margaret's  influence  withheld 
him  from  going  to  Philadelphia  at  once. 

"  I  need  not  to  see  him,"  he  said  ;  "  I  could  go  each 
day  to  the  door  and  ask  if  he  is  better  No  hurt 


30  A   FOUR-LEAVED   CLOVER. 

could  be  to  him  in  that ;  it  would  not  be  so  hard 
for  me  as  is  this  to  stay  here  ;  and  the  doctors  do 
not  always  know  the  right ;  no  one  can  do  for  my 
Karl  so  as  I  can  do.  " 

"  But,  Mr.  Reutner,"  urged  Margaret,  "  you  do 
not  dream  how  much  harder  it  would  be  for  you  to 
bear  not  seeing  him,  there  ;  it  is  almost  more  than 
you  can  bear  here,  three  days'  journey  from  him  ; 
if  he  were  in  the  next  room,  nobody  could  keep 
you  out ;  and  then  if  he  were  to  have  another  fever 
from  the  excitement  of  seeing  you,  you  would  never 
forgive  yourself  ;  and  it  might  kill  him.  He  must 
be  very  weak." 

This  last  fear  restrained  Wilhelm.  "  Yes,  if  it 
were  to  hurt  him.  That  would  not  be  love  !  "  he 
said  over  and  over  to  himself,  and  tried  to  keep 
his  heart  and  hands  busy  in  making  preparations 
for  Karl's  comfort  after  his  return ;  but  the  days 
seemed  longer  and  longer  to  him,  and  his  face 
again  grew  worn  and  haggard,  almost  as  much  as  it 
had  in  the  first  few  weeks  after  the  news  of  Karl's 
death. 

One  night  he  sprang  up  from  the  tea-table,  say- 
\ng,  "  Annette,  come  to  the  theatre  !  I  cannot  sit 
in  this  r&om,  thinking  how  it  will  be  when  Karl  is 
again  in  his  corner  with  the  violin.  I  wish  we 
could  live  in  another  house  till  he  is  here.  It  will 
fiever  be  done,  these  two  months  !  " 

After  they  had  gone,  Margaret  drew  her  chair  in 
front  of  the  fire,  and  fell  into  a  long  reverie,  a 


A   FOUR-LEAVED   CLOVER.  31 

strange  thing  for  her  to  do.  She  reviewed  hex 
whole  life ;  first  as  the  eldest  daughter  in  the  poor 
minister's  household ;  then  as  the  unknown  teacher 
in  the  great  city  ;  now  the  successfull  instructress, 
highly  esteemed,  sought  after  by  people  of  culture 
conscious  of  influence  and  power,  having  in  a  great 
measure  realized  her  early  dreams.  But  the  early 
dreams  had  been  succeeded  by  later  ones  no  less 
vivid,  no  less  alluring.  Margaret  Warren  had  in 
her  nature  a  vein  of  intense  ambition.  It  was  not 
a  vulgar  craving  for  power  as  power  ;  it  was  rather 
that  a  consciousness  of  power  craved  room,  craved 
action.  Her  studies,  her  reading,  had  opened  to 
her  new  worlds,  and  made  life  seem  to  her  more 
and  more  a  vista  upon  which  she  had  as  yet  barely 
entered. 

Her  aesthetic  sense  was  fast  developing  into  a 
passion  which  must  have  food  ;  beauty  in  little 
things,  beauty  in  great  things,  beauty  perpetually 
she  was  learning  to  demand.  A  verse  of  Keats 
could  so  stimulate  her,  so  lift  her  into  delight,  that 
she  would  find  jarring  and  offense  in  things  which 
Her  practical  good  sense  told  her  were  as  true,  as 
harmonious  in  their  way  as  the  color  and  rhythm 
of  Keats's  peerless  lines.  She  recalled  herself 
constantly  ;  she  reproached  herself  constantly  j  she 
said  sternly  to  herself  many  a  time,  "  Dignity  and 
truth  are  the  same  in  all  ages.  This  Wilhelm 
here  is  great ;  and  Annette,  and  the  children,  they 
are  representative.  Socrates  knew  no  more  than 


32  A   FOUR-LEAVED   CLOVER. 

they  live,  each  year,  each  hour,  in  their  simplicity. 
If  I  dwelt  in  a  court,  the  king  could  be,  after  all, 
only  a  man.  All  knowledge  is  open  to  me,  I 
have  but  to  take  it.  What  do  I  want  ? "  But 
that  she  did  want  Margaret  knew  very  well.  She 
wanted  the  delights  of  the  companionship  of  the 
very  wisest  and  highest  men,  the  delight  of  the 
sight  and  sound  and  sense  of  utmost  beauty,  and 
still  more,  the  delight  of  feeling  in  herself  the  wis 
dom,  the  beauty,  the  elevation.  It  was  partly  a 
noble,  and  partly  an  ignoble  craving  ;  partly  selfish 
and  partly  pure ;  but  stirred  and  kindled  and  fed 
by  such  lofty  enthusiasms  and  purposes,  that  Mar 
garet  must  be  called  a  noble  woman  even  in  her 
discontent. 

She  was  roused  from  her  reverie  by  sounds  of 
strange  voices  in  the  hall.  As  she  laid  her  hand 
on  the  door  to  open  it,  it  was  thrown  violently 
open,  and  she  had  barely  time  to  spring  back,  when 
she  found  herself  clasped  in  the  arms  of  a  tall  man, 
and  kissed  on  cheeks,  forehead,  eyes,  lips,  neck. 

She  was  so  stunned,  so  bewildered,  she  could 
not  speak ;  also,  strong  arms  held  her  so  tightly 
that  she  had  no  breath,  and  the  first  words  came 
from  the  servant,  who  ran  into  the  room,  calling 
vociferously,  "  Howly  Vargin,  but  it 's  not  the  mis- 
thress,  at  all,  at  all,  that  yee  's  kissin'.  It 's  the 
tacher,  sir  —  och,  Miss  Margaret,  it's  the  mistress 
to)  is  a  takin'  ye  for." 

That  was  a  moment  not  to  be  forgotten.     In  the 


A  FOUR-LEAVED   CLOVER.  3$ 

dim  fire-light,  Karl  and  Margaret  having  disen 
tangled  themselves,  stood  for  a  second  looking 
blankly  in  each  other's  faces  :  Karl,  the  picture  of 
inexpressible  chagrin  and  confusion;  Margaret, 
scarlet  with  excitement.  But  her  strong  sense  o£ 
the  ludicrous  soon  conquered  every  other  feeling, 
and,  with  laughing  eyes,  she  said,  "  Never  mind, 
Mr.  Karl,  I  will  give  them  all  to  Annette  as  soon 
as  she  comes  home,  and  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you 
back,  indeed  I  am,"  she  added,  stretching  out  both 
her  hands  to  him ;  "  we  did  not  look  for  you  for 
weeks  yet.  " 

As  she  took  his  hands  in  hers  she  felt  that  they 
were  cold  as  ice,  and  saw  that  his  face  was  turning 
white.  His  strength  of  a  moment  before  was  only 
the  passing  strength  of  a  great  excitement.  He 
had  set  out  against  the  advice  of  his  physicians 
and  nurses,  had  journeyed  day  and  night,  and  now 
the  false  strength  given  by  the  desire  to  be  at  home 
was  fast  ebbing  away. 

"  Oh,  pray  lie  down,  Mr.  Reutner,  you  look  very 
ill,"  exclaimed  Margaret ;  and  she  led  him  like  a 
little  child,  to  the  lounge.  Like  a  little  child  he  lay 
down  upon  it,  and  looked  up  in  her  face,  while  with 
the  servant's  help,  she  took  off  his  heavy  wrap 
pings.  Then  he  shut  his  eyes,  and  murmured, 
"The  four  leaf  of  clover." 

Margaret  was  terrified.     She  thought  he  was  de 
lirious  ;  she  dared  not  be  left  alone  with  him,  and 
yet  she  felt  that  she  ought  to  send  for  a  physician, 
3 


34  A   FOUR-LEAVED   CLOVER. 

She  bathed  his  forehead;  she  chafed  his  hands j 
she  looked  helplessly  into  the  servant's  face,  say 
ing,  "  Oh  Mary,  what  shall  we  do  ?  "  At  the  sound 
of  her  voice  Karl  opened  his  eyes,  and  said, 
feebly,  "  Do  not  have  fear.  I  will  rest.  That  is 
•all,  and  if  there  is  wine,  it  will  make  me  strong." 
Then  he  looked  long  into  Margaret's  face  with  a 
strange,  unseeing  gaze,  and  murmured  again,  as 
he  shut  his  eyes  :  — 

"The  four  leaf  of  clover.     It  have  come  true." 

When  Wilhelm  and  Annette  returned,  they  found 
Karl  asleep  on  the  sofa,  and  Margaret  siting  close 
by  his  side,  her  face  pale  and  full  of  distress.  It 
had  been  a  terrible  hour  for  her.  As  soon  as  she 
saw  Wilhelm  and  Annette,  she  burst  into  tears, 
exclaiming,  "  Oh,  thank  God,  you  have  come ;  he  is 
not  quite  in  his  senses,  and  I  have  not  known  what 
to  do  !  " 

Hardly  daring  to  breathe,  lest  they  should  waken 
the  sleeper,  the  three  sat  motionless  for  an  hour. 

At  Karl's  first  movement,  Wilhelm  threw  him 
self  on  his  knees,  and  clasped  him  to  his  heart  j 
no  word  was  spoken  •  but  the  two  men  sobbed  like 
women.  While  they  were  in  each  other's  arms 
Margaret  stole  softly  away. 

When  Karl  looked  up  he  said,  "  The  four  leaf  of 
clover,  where  has  she  gone  ? "  Wilhelm  did  not 
understand  the  first  wc>rds,  but  replied  simply  to 
the  last,  "  She  has  gone  to  her  room.  It  is  the 
good  teacher,  Miss  Margaret ;  she  lives  with  us, 
Vou  will  love  her  as  we  all  do." 


A    FOUR-LEAVED   CLOVER.  35 

Karl  smiled. 

The  next  morning,  when  Margaret  came  into 
the  sitting-room,  Karl,  still  lying  on  the  lounge, 
fixed  his  blue  eyes  steadily  on  her  face,  and  said 
abruptly,  "It  was  then  that  I  so  frightened  you,  to 
make  your  cheeks  so  white,  last  night.  To-day 
they  are  red,  like  red  lilies  and  white  lilies  in  one 
field,"  and  the  blue  eyes  dwelt  on  the  face  till  the 
red  lilies  had  driven  all  the  white  lilies  away. 

Margaret  passed  her  hand  impatiently  across  her 
cheek.  "  Oh,  I  always  have  color,"  she  said.  It 
did  not  please  her  that  Wilhelm  Reutner's  brother 
should  have  looked  at  her  in  that  manner.  In  a 
second  more,  her  kindliness  of  heart  triumphed  over 
the  slight  unworthiness  of  resentment,  and  going 
nearer  him,  she  added,  "  I  was  indeed  very  much 
frightened  about  you  last  night.  You  seemed  very 
ill,  and  I  was  all  alone  with  Mary.  I  hope  you  are 
better ;  you  look  better." 

Karl's  eyes  had  fallen  to  the  ground.  As  clearly 
as  if  it  had  been  written  in  letters  on  Margaret'* 
brow,  he  had  read  her  first  thought,  and  had  been 
pained. 

"  Yes,  I  am  better ;  I  am  well.  It  is  the  home 
which  could  cure  me,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  whose 
grave  simplicity  was  like  Wilhelm's,  and  had  in  it 
an  inexpressible  charm. 

In  a  moment  more,  he  said,  earnestly,  "  Have 
you  ever  found  one  four  leaf  of  clover  ?  "  and,  tak 
ing  out  his  pocket-book,  he  turned  its  leaves  ovel 
llowly,  searching  for  something. 


36  A   FOUR-LEADED  CLOVER. 

"  Oh  dear,"  thought  Margaret,  "  he  is  certainly 
crazy.  That  was  what  he  was  talking  about  last 
night.  Poor  fellow!" 

"Oh,  yes,  Mr.  Reutner,"  she  replied.  "Four- 
leaved  clovers  are  very  common.  I  have  often 
found  whole  handfuls  of  them." 

"I  thought  you  had.  And  have  you  ever  one 
dream  at  night  that  you  find  the  hands  full  of  them, 
and  give  them  to  some  one  ? " 

Margaret  looked  puzzled,  and  was  about  to  reply; 
when  Wilhelm  and  the  children  entered  the  room.' 
Karl  laid  a  little  folded  paper,  which  he  had  held 
in  his  hand,  back  into  the  pocket-book,  and  opened 
his  arms  to  the  children,  who  sprang  into  them, 
and  covered  him  with  kisses  until  he  was  forced  to 
cry  out  for  mercy. 

All  day  long  Margaret  was  haunted  by  the  words, 
and  the  voice  in  which  they  were  spoken,  "  Have 
you  ever  found  one  four  leaf  of  clover  ? "  "  What 
could  he  have  meant?"  she  thought.  "He  does 
not  seem  in  the  least  like  a  crazy  man.  I  wonder 
what  he  had  in  that  paper  ; "  and  more  than  once, 
the  scholars  received  irrelevant  answers  to  their 
questions,  because  their  beautiful  teacher's  thoughts 
were  full  of  this  perplexing  memory. 

That  night  the  mystery  was  cleared  up.  After 
the  children  had  gone  to  bed,  Karl  told  the  story 
of  the  four-leaved  clover,  and  took  from  his  pocket 
book  the  little  relic  leaf.  Wilhelm  took  it  in  his 
oands,  and  looked  at  it  with  stern  eyes. 


A   FOUR-LEAVED   CLOVER.  tf 

"But  why  dost  thou  keep  it,  my  Karl?  Ach,  it 
has  cost  thee  dear  !  " 

Karl  reached  his  hand  out  hastily,  as  if  to  rescue 
the  leaf. 

"  But  it  have  bring  me  home,"  he  said.  "  I  will 
keep  it  so  long  as  I  live,"  and  as  he  laid  it  back  in 
the  pocket-book,  he  smiled  with  the  smile  of  one 
who  recalls  a  bliss  known  only  to  himself. 

It  was  indeed  the  "home  which  could  cure." 
Karl  grew  better  hour  by  hour.  The  wound  healed, 
and,  although  the  physicians  said  that  the  lungs 
must  always  be  weak,  Karl  was  in  two  months  a 
strong  man. 

Margaret  did  not  grow  wonted  to  his  presence 
in  the  family.  It  disturbed  her,  she  hardly  knew 
how,  or  why,  and  she  chided  herself  often  for  the 
unreasonable  feeling.  Since  that  first  morning, 
when  with  his  blue  eyes  blazing  with  admiration, 
he  had  compared  her  cheeks  to  red  lilies,  he  had 
never  by  word  or  glance  betrayed  any  feeling  other 
than  the  respectful  affection  with  which  his  brother 
and  sister  treated  her.  His  eyes  met  hers  with  the 
same  clear,  steady  response  that  Wilhelm's  always 
did,  and  he  listened  to  her  words  with  a  simple 
reverence  like  that  the  children  showed  her.  Often 
when  she  was  speaking,  he  sat  with  his  head  slightly 
bowed,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground  ;  and  an  ex 
pression  of  rapt  attention ;  it  was  as  a  man  might 
'isten  to  the  words  of  a  priestess.  Sometimes 
when  he  looked  earnestly  at  her,  there  was,  for  a 


38  A   FOUR-LEADED   CLOVER. 

second,  a  beseeching  and  remorseful  look,  as  of 
one  who  implored  forgiveness ;  but  the  look  was 
gone  so  quickly  that  Margaret  never  fathomed  its 
meaning,  and  no  one  else  saw  it. 

Margaret  often  wished  that  Karl  had  not  come 
home ;  and  yet,  she  never  said  this  to  herself  with 
out  being  in  the  same  instant  conscious  that  in 
numberless,  and  in  some  hardly  definable  ways,  her 
comfort  had  been  much  increased  since  his  return. 
Karl  had  seen  more  of  the  world  than  Wilhelm  and 
Annette,  and  had,  moreover,  a  curious  faculty  of 
divining  Margaret's  preferences  and  tastes. 

"  The  teacher  would  like  this,  or  that,"  he  had 
said  to  Annette,  again  and  again  ;  and  Annette  had 
replied,  "  How  dost  thou  know  ?  Has  the  teacher 
said  it  to  thee  ?  She  was  pleased  before."  But 
when  Karl  had  carried  his  point,  Annette  always 
found  that  there  came  in  a  few  clays,  a  strong  ex 
pression  of  grateful  pleasure  from  Margaret. 

And  so  the  spring  and  the  summer  wore  away, 
and  the  winter  came  back,  and  the  long  months 
had  brought  no  apparent  change  in  Wilhelm  Reut- 
ner's  house.  But  deep  down  in  one  heart  under 
that  roof,  were  working  forces  mightier,  subtler 
than  any  which  had  ripened  the  spring  into  the 
summer,  and  the  summer  into  the  garnered  harvest 
of  autumn.  Karl  Reutner  loved  Margaret  Warren. 
His  love  was  so  entirely  without  any  hope  of  return, 
that  it  partook  of  the  nature  of  the  passion  of  a 
spiritual  devotee,  and  was  lifted  to  a  plane  of  at 


A   FOUR-LEAVED   CLOVER.  39 

most  superhuman  unselfishness.  To  say  that  he 
never  thought  of  Margaret  as  a  man  thinks  of  a 
woman  who  might  be  his  wife,  would  not  be  true. 
Margaret  was  a  very  beautiful  woman  ;  and  Karl 
Reutner  was  a  man  in  whose  veins  ran  blood  both 
strong  and  pure  ;  he  could  not  hear  the  rustle  of 
Margaret's  gown  without  a  faster  beat  to  his  pulse. 
Yet,  when  he  thought  of  Margaret's  possible  wife- 
hood,  it  was  never  of  her  wifehood  to  him.  He 
could  not  forbear  thinking  what  wifehood,  what 
motherhood  would  be  to  her ;  he  could  not  forbear 
thinking  what  it  would  be  to  a  man,  if  Margaret 
were  to  put  her  arms  around  him  ;  he  could  not 
forbear  thinking  how  Margaret  would  look  with  her 
child  at  her  breast.  But  it  was  as  a  man  might 
think,  kneeling  before  the  holiest  of  Raphael's 
Madonnas.  His  sole  desire  in  life  was  that  Mar 
garet  should  have  happiness.  Each  smallest  trifle 
in  which  he  could  add  to  that  happiness,  was  a  joy 
unspeakable  ;  that  she  seemed  content,  even  glad 
in  the  quiet  home  life  which  he  shared,  was  a  bless 
ing  so  great,  that  even  one  day  of  it  could  almost 
be  food-  for  a  lifetime,  it  seemed  to  him.  The 
thought  that  it  could  not  always  be  thus,  he  reso 
lutely  put  away.  But  from  the  thought  of  asking 
Margaret  to  be  .his,  —  Karl  Reutner's,  —  wife,  his 
very  soul  would  have  recoiled  as  it  would  from  a 
blasphemy. 

And  yet  the  day  came  when  Margaret  found  her 
self  obliged  to  say  to  him  that  she  could  not  love 
him. 


40  A   FOUR-LEAVED   CLOVE K. 

It  was  a  strange  chance  which  brought  it  about. 

Karl's  love  of  flowers  was  a  passion  such  as  only 
Germans  know.  How,  in  addition  to  all  the  hours 
he  devoted  to  his  business,  he  found  hours  enough 
to  make  flowers  grow  in  every  window-seat,  nook 
and  ledge  in  and  outside  of  the  house  was  a  mar 
vel.  But  he  did,  and  the  little  house  was  known 
far  and  wide  for  its  blossoms.  Margaret's  sitting- 
room  was  a  conservatory;  as  soon  as  a  plant  showed 
signs  of  decay  it  was  removed,  and  replaced  by  a 
vigorous  one.  Bloom  succeeded  bloom  ;  in  season 
and  out  of  season  she  was  never  without  flowers  of 
red  and  of  white. 

One  Saturday  in  February,  a  year  from  the  day 
Karl  had  come  home,  Margaret  was  sitting  alone 
in  her  room.  It  had  snowed,  and  the  day  had  been 
dreary ;  at  sunset  the  sky  cleared,  and  a  beautiful 
rosy  glow  spread  over  the  lake.  Margaret  sat 
watching  it,  and  wondering,  as  all  lonely  people 
have  hours  of  wondering,  why,  since  the  world  is 
so  thronged  with  its  millions,  there  need  ever  be 
one  lonely  man  or  woman.  Some  one  knocked  at 
the  door  so  gently  that  she  thought  it  was  one  of 
the  children,  and  answered  without  looking  around. 
The  door  opened,  but  no  one  spoke.  Margaret 
turned  her  head ;  there  stood  Karl,  holding  in  his 
hands  an  oblong  box  of  daisies  in  full  blossom.  He 
had  been  for  weeks  coaxing  and  crowding  the  little 
things  until  there  was  a  thicket  of  the  dainty  nod 
ding  disks,  pink,  white,  red,  and  the  green  leaves 


A  FOUR-LEAVED   CLOVER.  41 

also  crowding  thick  and  bright.  The  box  \vas  sur 
rounded  by  a  fine  lattice  work,  painted  white,  which 
came  up  like  a  paling,  two  inches  above  the  top  of 
the  box,  so  that  one  could  fancy  it  a  mound  in  an 
English  garden  fenced  in  with  white. 

"  It  is  for  you,  Miss  Margaret.  Where  shall  I 
set  it,"  said  Karl. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Reutner,  you  are  too  kind,"  exclaimed 
Margaret,  her  face  crimson  with  pleasure.  "  It  is 
the  loveliest  thing  I  ever  saw,"  and  she  bent  her 
face  down  close  to  the  daisies,  still  held  in  Karl's 
hands. 

Margaret  had  never  been  so  near  to  Karl  before. 
The  rosy  lake  and  sky,  and  snowy  clouds  made  of 
the  window-panes  behind  her  a  background  such  as 
Raphael  never  painted.  Her  beaming  face  and 
thrilling  presence  lifted  Karl  to  heights  of  exalta 
tion,  and,  placing  the  daisy-box  on  the  floor  at  her 
feet,  he  said,  "  They  are  but  daisies,  beautiful  Miss 
Margaret ;  that  was  the  fitting  flower,  for  it  is  like 
my  love  for  you.  It  is  low  on  the  ground,  but  it 
would  bloom  for  you  always,  and  you  will  not  for 
bid  that  they  should  live  always  in  your  room  ? " 
And  for  the  second  time  Margaret  saw  the  blue 
eyes  kindle  as  they  kindled  when  he  had  told  her 
her  cheeks  were  like  red  lilies. 

Margaret  grew  more  crimson  still.  No  words 
:ame  to  her  lips. 

It  seemed  as  ruthless  to  hurt  this  man's  love  as 
*o  trample  on  a  daisy.  Yet  Karl  Reutner  must  be 


42  A   FOUR-LEADED   CLOVEK. 

made  to  understand  that  there  could  be  no  thought 
of  love  between  him  and  her.  Even  in  that  glori 
fied  moment,  when  he  stood  before  her,  tall,  strong, 
upright,  fair  as  an  old  Saxon  viking  with  his  golden 
beard  and  blue  eyes,  and  pure,  she  well  knew,  as 
Adam  in  Eden,  Margaret  Warren  remembered  that 
Karl  Reutner  was  beneath  her  in  what  the  world 
calls  station.  There  was  a  shade  of  something  not 
wholly  kind  in  the  very  kindness  and  gentleness 
with  which  she  said  : 

"  But,  Mr.  Reutner,  I  cannot  let  you  give  me  the 
daisies  to  mean  that.  I  am  so  sorry,  so  grieved  to 
pain  you,  but  I  must  be  true." 

Margaret's  eyes  filled  with  tears  as  she  saw  the 
look  of  distress  on  Karl's  face.  He  stooped  to 
pick  up  the  box  without  saying  a  word.  Marga 
ret's  heart  could  not  bear  this. 

"  But,  Mr.  Reutner,  you  need  not  take  the  dai 
sies  away.  I  would  love  to  have  them  in  my  room, 
now  that  you  understand  me.  You  were  so  good 
to  make  them  grow  like  this  for  me.  They  will  be 
beautiful  all  winter,"  and  Margaret  laid  her  hand 
gently  and  caressingly  on  the  edge  of  the  box. 

"  Oh,  Miss  Margaret,  I  thank  you,"  said  Karl, 
in  a  very  low  voice.  "  You  need  not  to  fear  that 
the  daisies  should  say  words  to  you,  if  yon  are 
willing  that  they  live  at  your  feet.  They  have  but 
eyes ;  they  will  not  speak.  You  will  let  them 
stay  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  indeed  I  will,"  replied  Margaret,  try 


A   FOUR-LEAVED   CLOVER.  43 

ing  to  speak  in  a  natural  voice,  as  if  it  were  an 
every-day  gift,  and  making  room  for  them  on  a 
little  stand  by  the  window.  Then,  while  Karl  was 
arranging  the  box  and  the  saucer,  she  went  on 
talking  with  a  forced  rapidity  and  earnestness  of 
manner. 

Karl  listened  as  one  who  only  partly  heard  the 
words.  When  she  stopped  he  said  in  his  old, 
grave,  calm  tone,  lifting  his  eyes  to  hers  steadily  as 
usual:  "Thank  you,  Miss  Margaret,"  and  left  the 
room. 

Margaret  burst  into  tears.  She  was  very  un 
happy  and  utterly  perplexed. 

"Whoever  heard  of  a  man's  thanking  a  woman 
like  that,  and  going  away  looking  so  content  and 
glad  when  she  had  just  told  him  she  could  not 
marry  him  !  "  said  Margaret  to  herself,  "  and  what 
is  to  become  of  me  now?  I  cannot  live  in  the 
house  with  him  any  longer  ;  it  will  not  be  kind  ;  I 
must  go  away.  Oh,  I  wish  he  had  never  come 
home,"  and  Margaret  threw  herself  on  the  bed 
and  cried  herself  to  sleep. 

When  Annette  knocked  at  the  door  to  ask  why 
she  did  not  come  down  to  tea,  Margaret  roused 
herself  from  her  heavy  sleep,  and  looked  into  An 
nette's  face  with  a  bewildered  expression  of  distress. 
She  could  not  remember  at  first  what  had  hap 
pened.  In  a  second  it  all  flashed  into  her  mind, 
and  burying  her  face  in  the  pillow  she  groaned 
aloud.  Annette  was  frightened.  She  had  never 


44  A   FOUR-LEAVED   CLOVEK. 

seen  the  "  teacher  "  lose  self-control.  She  thought 
she  must  be  very  ill. 

"  Oh,  Miss  Margaret,  what  have  you  ?  It  is  a 
fever  "  —  for  Margaret's  face  was  of  a  scarlet  color. 
"  Karl  must  bring  the  doctor,"  exclaimed  Annette. 

"  No,  no,  Mrs.  Reutner,"  cried  Margaret.  "  I 
beg  you  will  not  say  a  word  to  any  one.  I  am  not 
ill.  I  have  slept  too  heavily.  I  will  not  come 
down-stairs  to-night,  but  I  shall  be  well  to-mor 
row." 

It  was  the  first  time  that  Margaret's  chair  at  the 
table  had  been  vacant.  Annette's  explanation  of 
her  absence  did  not  lessen  the  sense  of  gloom 
which  every  one  felt. 

Margaret  ill !     It  was  incredible. 

"  She  have  never  looked  so  beautiful  as  I  saw 
her  not  three  hours  ago,"  said  Karl  incredulously. 

Something  in  his  toie  fell  strangely  on  Wil- 
helm's  ear.  He  turned  a  keen,  quick  look  upon 
his  brother's  face ;  but  Karl  met  it  with  one  open 
as  day,  in  which  nothing  rould  be  read  except  un 
feigned  anxiety  and  wonder. 

When  Annette  went  to  Margaret's  room  later  in 
the  evening,  Margaret's  fact  was  pale,  and  all 
traces  of  feverish  excitement  had  passed  away. 
She  had  had  two  hours  of  hard  s' niggle  with  her 
self ;  but  she  had  resolved  that  she  must  seek  an 
other  home,  and,  having  come  to  this  resolution, 
she  wished  to  lose  no  time  in  carrying  it  out. 

"  Sit  down,  dear  Mrs.  Reutner,"  sh~  said,  "  I 
must  have  a  little  talk  with  you." 


A   FOUR-LEAVED   CLOVER.  45 

Annette  looked  uneasy.  She  had  never  seen 
Margaret  look  as  she  looked  now.  She  knew  that 
bad  news  was  coming. 

"  My  dear,  good,  kind  friend,  I  must  go  away 
from  you,"  said  Margaret,  and  her  voice  trembled. 

Annette  gazed  speechlessly  into  Margaret's  face. 

"  Oh,  Miss  Margaret,  what  is  it  ?  Is  it  that  you 
must  go  home  ?  " 

Margaret  shook  her  head.  "  No,  Mrs.  Reutner, 
I  have  no  expectation  of  leaving  Chicago  ;  but  I 
must  find  another  home.  It  is  not  best  for  me  to 
live  in  your  house  any  longer." 

Great  tears  rolled  down  Annette's  face,  and  she 
sobbed  :  "  Oh,  Miss  Margaret,  is  it  nothing  we  can 
do  to  make  all  better  for  you.  It  will  break  the 
father's  heart  and  the  little  ones'.  Will  you  not 
tell  us  ?  We  have  much  more  money  now ;  we  can 
buy  all  for  you,  if  you  will  only  show  us  how  it  is 
to  be ; "  and  Annette  cried  heartily. 

Margaret  was  distressed.  It  seemed  disloyal  to 
Karl  to  give  her  reason ;  cruel  to  Annette  and  Wil- 
helm  to  withhold  it.  She  remained  silent  for  some 
time.  Annette  sobbed  again  a  few  broken  words ; 
"Miss  Margaret,  you  do  not  know  what  it  is  to 
the  house  that  you  are  in  it.  Karl  said,  only  yes 
terday,  that  you  were  the  good  angel  to  each  one 
in  the  house.  Tell  us,  Miss  Margaret.  Is  it  that 
you  must  have  larger  rooms  ?  Wilhelm  will  build 
all  you  want,  —  one,  two,  more." 

The  mention  of  Karl's  name  gave  Margaret 
«ore  strength  to  proceed. 


£6  A  FOUR-LEADED   CLOVER. 

"  I  will  tell  you,  my  kind  friend,"  she  said,  "  the 
real  truth.  It  is  for  your  brother  that  I  must  go 
away.  He  loves  me ;  he  told  me  so  this  after 
noon  ;  and  it  is  not  delicate  or  kind  after  that  for 
me  to  live  in  the  same  house  with  him.  I  shall 
never  be  so  happy  anywhere  else.  Nobody  will 
make  me  so  comfortable,  and  I  am  very,  very  sorry 
to  go  away ;  but  I  must,"  and  Margaret,  in  her 
turn,  was  very  near  crying. 

Annette  had  dried  her  tears,  sprung  to  her  feet, 
and  now  stood  gazing  at  Margaret  with  such  stupe 
faction  in  her  face  that  Margaret  could  scarcely 
keep  from  smiling  in  spite  of  her  distress. 

"  Karl  —  tell  you  he  love  you  —  to  be  his  wife  ? " 
gasped  Annette.  "  Oh,  Miss  Margaret,  it  has  been 
a  mistake.  Karl  has  never  told  you  that;  Karl 
could  not." 

Margaret  colored. 

"  I  am  not  likely  to  be  mistaken,  Mrs.  Reutner," 
she  said,  a  little  coldly.  "  I  regret  it  more  than  I 
can  say.  But  it  is  so,  and  I  must  go  away." 

Annette  seemed  like  one  in  a  dream.  She  was 
in  haste  to  be  gone.  She  replied  at  random  to  all 
Margaret  said,  and  at  last  sobbed  afresh:  — 

"  Oh,  Miss  Margaret,  I  must  go  now.  To-mor 
row  I  will  hear  you  again.  I  think  not  that  the 
good  God  sent  you  to  our  house  to  take  you  away 
like  this  ; "  and  Annette  was  gone. 

Wilhelm  and  Karl  were  seated  in  the  dining 
room,  smoking.  Annette,  with  streaming  eyes 


A   FOUR-LEAVED   CLOVER.  47 

entered  the  room,  and  hurrying  breathlessly  to 
Karl,  exclaimed  :  — 

"  How  daredst  thou  to  ask  the  teacher  to  be  thy 
wife?  It  \\as  thou  that  hast  made  her  ill,  and 
she  will  go  away  from  our  house  because  of  thee, 
and  —  "  Annette  stopped  for  lack  of  breath,  and 
because  the  two  men  had  both  sprung  to  their  feet, 
and  were  gesticulating  violently,  —  Karl  with  an 
angry  voice. 

"  God  in  Heaven  !  What  dost  thou  take  me  for, 
Annette  ?  Dost  thou  not  know  I  would  as  soon 
ask  one  of  the  angels  in  Paradise  to  be  wife  to 
me  ?  Who  has  told  thee  this  tale  ?  " 

And  Wilhelm,  "  Annette,  art  thou  mad,  or  dost 
thou  think  Karl  is  a  madman  ?  " 

Annette  looked  tremblingly  from  one  to  the 
other.  She  herself  had  felt  like  this  when  Mar 
garet  had  first  told  her.  In  a  hesitating  voice  she 
began  :  — 

"  But  Miss  Margaret  has  said  that  thou  —  " 

Before  she  could  finish  her  sentence,  Karl's  face, 
—  white  as  the  face  of  a  dead  man,  —  was  bent 
close  to  hers,  and  Karl's  voice,  strange,  husky,  was 
saying,  in  slow,  gasping  syllables  :  — 

"  The  teacher  —  said  —  I  —  asked  —  her  —  to 
—-be  —  wife  ?  " 

Annette  nodded,  too  terrified  to  speak. 

Karl  strode  to  the  door,  and  opened  it.  Annette 
ran  to  hold  him  back,  but  Wilhelm  restrained  her. 
In  that  short  moment  Wilhelm  had  understood  all 


48  A  FOUR-LEAVED   CLOVER. 

"He  must  speak  to  her,"  he  said;  "let  him  go. 
It  must  be  told  to  her.  She  has  mistaken  ;  it  was 
not  that  Karl  asked  her  to  marry  him.  But  he  has 
let  her  to  know  that  he  has  worship  for  her.  And 
she  need  not  be  angry  for  my  Karl's  love,  if  he 
ask  nothing,"  added  Wilhelm,  proudly ;  but  his 
head  sank  on  his  breast,  and  he  said,  in  a  low 
tone  to  himself :  "  Oh,  my  poor  Karl ;  my  poor 
Karl !  " 

Margaret  knew  Karl's  step.  As  she  heard  it 
rapidly  drawing  near  her  door,  her  heart  beat  and 
her  cheeks  flushed.  What  had  Annette  said  ? 
What  new  distress  and  embarrassment  were  com 
ing  to  her  now  ?  Almost  she  resolved  not  to  admit 
him,  But  Karl  forestalled  that  intention.  Knock 
ing  lightly  on  the  door,  he  spoke  at  the  same  in 
stant  :  — 

"  Miss  Margaret,  for  God's  sake,  I  ask  to  come 
and  speak  to  you  one  minute,  —  only  one  minute  j 
it  must  be." 

The  anguish  in  his  voice  moved  Margaret 
strangely.  She  opened  the  door. 

Karl  entered  almost  staggering,  and  with  his 
hands  clasped  :  — 

"  Oh,  mine  God,"  he  exclaimed,  "  give  it  to  me 
what  I  shall  say!  Miss  Margaret,  beautiful  Miss 
Margaret,  angel  of  God,  I  did  only  ask  that  the 
'ove  and  the  daisies  should  lie  together  under  your 
feet.  I  could  die  here  before  you  m  one  second,  if 
vou  do  not  believe  that  never,  no  never,  in  aH  this 


A   FOUR-LEAVED    CLOVER.  49 

urorl  i,  I  could  have  asked  you  what  you  have  said 
to  Annette.  You  are  to  me  as  if  I  saw  you  in 
Heaven;  you  are  angel  of  God  in  my  brother's 
house.  If  you  go  away  because  I  have  said  such 
love  as  this,  then  will  I,  too,  go,  and  never  shall 
my  Wilhelm  see  my  face  again,  so  help  me,  my 
God  ! " 

Before  Karl  had  spoken  three  words,  Margaret 
divined  all.  Shame,  resentment,  perplexity,  and 
unspeakable  distress  mingled  of  all  three,  were  in 
her  face.  She  could  not  speak.  This  man,  then, 
had  never  dreamed  of  asking  her  to  be  his  wife. 
True,  he  acknowledged  the  utmost  devotion  for 
her,  and  more  than  implied  that  the  reason  he 
could  not  ask  her  to  marry  him  was  that  he  re 
vered  her  as  an  angel  of  God ;  but  the  mortifying 
fact  remained  that  she  had  not  only  rejected  a  man 
who  had  not  asked  her  to  take  him  as  a  husband, 
but  she  had  told  the  matter,  and  compelled  him  to 
come  and  undeceive  her.  It  was  a  bitter  thing. 
Margaret  could  not  speak  ;  she  could  not  look  up. 

Karl  went  on,  more  calmly :  "  Beautiful  Miss 
Margaret,  it  will  come  that  you  forgive  me  when 
you  have  thought.  And  you  would  have  seen  that 
't  was  only  the  love  like  the  daisy,  at  the  feet,  if 
you  had  come  down-stairs  before  you  had  spoken, 
you  would  have  seen  that  you  need  not  to  go  away. 
It  is  not  kind  to  the  daisy  that  there  be  no  more 
sun." 

Maigaret  could  not  speak.     Karl  walked  slowly 


50  A   FOUR-LEAVED   CLOVER. 

to  the  door.     As  he  opened  it,  Margaret  sprang  to 
wards  him,  and  holding  out  her  hand,  said  : 

"Forgive  me,  Mr.  Reutner.  That  is  the  only 
word  I  can  say." 

Karl  took  her  hand  in  his,  looked  at  it  with  no 
more  trace  of  earthly  passion  in  his  eyes  than  if  it 
were  the  hand  of  a  shrined  saint,  lifted  it  to  his  fore 
head,  bowed,  and  was  gone. 

Now  was  Margaret's  distress  complete.  Turn 
which  way  she  would,  she  saw  only  perplexity  and 
mortification.  Mingled  with  it  all  was  a  new, 
strange  feeling  in  regard  to  Karl,  which  she  could 
not  define  to  herself.  He  had  never  looked  so 
manly  as  when  he  stood  before  her,  saying,  "So 
help  me,  my  God  !  "  It  was  the  only  moment  in 
which  he  had  ever,  in  her  presence,  seemed  stronger 
than  she.  Usually  his  great  love  bound  him  as 
with  withes,  and  laid  him  helpless  at  her  feet. 

A  low  hum  of  voices  came  to  Margaret's  ears 
from  the  room  below.  Karl  and  Wilhelm  were 
talking  earnestly.  Only  too  vividly  Margaret's 
fancy  pictured  what  they  were  saying.  She  walked 
the  floor;  she  wrung  her  hands;  she  was  too 
wretched  to  shed  a  tear.  Deep  down  to  its  very 
depths  her  proud  heart  was  humiliated.  It  was  a 
kind  heart,  too,  spite  of  its  pride ;  a  loving  and  a 
grateful  heart;  and  it  was  sorely  wounded  to  have 
bi  ought  such  sorrow  to  friends. 

An   hour   passed;    all   grew   quiet   down-stairs. 
Margaret   still   walked   the   floor.      Suddenly   she 


A  FOUR-LEAVED    CLOVER.  51 

aeard  soft  steps  outside  her  door;  a  low  knock, 
and  Annette's  voice  said,  entreatingly :  "  Dear 
Miss  Margaret,  may  Wilhelm  come  and  speak  to 
you  ?  " 

Margaret  threw  the  door  open  instantly.  She 
was  so  wretched,  so  perplexed,  that  she  was  glad  of 
any  help  from  any  source.  She  had  already  thought 
of  Wilhelm,  and  wished  that  his  clear-eyed  and  ten 
der  wisdom  could  in  some  way  be  brought  to  bear 
on  this  distressing  problem. 

"  Miss  Margaret,"  said  Wilhelm,  very  quietly, 
"  it  is  not  much  that  I  can  say.  A  grief  has  come 
to  us  all ;  but  that  cannot  now  be  changed  :  that  is 
as  if  it  were  past ;  and  if  you  will  only  stay  in  our 
house  it  can  become  as  if  it  had  not  been.  It  is 
no  shame  to  you  that  my  brother  have  seen  that 
you  are  more  beautiful  and  good  than  any  other 
woman.  It  is  so  that  any  man  must  see,  Miss  Mar 
garet.  I,  also,  who  am  the  father  in  the  house,  I 
have  said  to  Annette  all  this  year  that  you  are  one 
good  angel.  And  I  could  kneel  to  pray  you  to  stay. 
I  know  my  Karl.  It  is  not  with  him  as  you  think. 
It  is  only  a  joy  to  him  that  you  stay,  as  it  is  to  me 
and  to  Annette.  And  he  will  keep  the  vow  he  have 
vowed.  If  you  go  he  will  go  away  for  ever.  Give 
So  us  our  brother,  oh,  Miss  Margaret,"  and  tears 
stood  in  Wilhelm's  eyes. 

"  Mr.  Reutner,"  said  Margaret,  very  earnestly, 
"do  you  truly  believe  that  it  will  do  your  brother 
uo  harm,  I  mean,  cause  him  no  pain  to  live  with  me 
is  before  ?  " 


52  A   FOUR-LEAVED   CLOVER. 

Wilhdm  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  floor  in  silence  for 

some  seconds.     Then  he  said  : 

"  Miss  Margaret,  that  you  are  content,  are  glad, 
is  joy  to  Karl  and  to  us.  So  long  as  you  find  to  be 
content,  glad  in  our  house,  it  is  great  joy.  When 
you  are  more  glad  in  your  own  house  that  will 
be  greatest  joy  to  Karl,  to  us.  There  will  come 
the  year  when  Karl  will  have  wife  and  house  as  I. 
He  has  the  great  father  heart  which  must  have  the 
children  to  love.  You  will  do  his  life  no  harm.  To 
have  seen  that  you  are  God's  angel  shall  be  only 
light  to  him,  not  cloud.  I  know  my  Karl.  Oh, 
Miss  Margaret,  will  you  not  for  one  month  try  if  it 
cannot  be  ? " 

So  Margaret  promised  to  stay.  The  first  meet 
ing  with  Karl  was  what  she  most  dreaded ;  but  it 
was  over  almost  before  she  knew  that  it  was  near, 
and  Karl's  beautiful  simplicity  of  nature  made  it 
easier  than  could  have  been  foreseen. 

He  was  standing  alone  in  the  window  of  the 
drawing-room  when  she  went  to  breakfast  the  next 
morning.  He  had  just  broken  a  beautiful  tea-rose 
from  its  stem,  and  was  about  to  lay  it  on  her  plate. 
<Vs  she  crossed  the  threshold  he  went  towards  her, 
holding  it  out,  and  saying  :  — 

"  You  are  like  a  new  guest  in  our  house  to-day. 
Oh,  Miss  Margaret,  let  the  rose  tell  to  you  how  we 
*11  thank  God  that  you  have  come." 
^  The  tone,  the  look,  were  calmly,  gravely,  affec 
tionate  as  evor.     The  old  life  was  taken  up  again, 


A   FOUR-LEAVED   CLOVER,  53 

the  stormy  break  in  it  put  away  forever.  Mar 
garet's  heart  leaped  with  a  sudden  rapture  in  the 
consciousness  that  she  still  had  the  same  quiet, 
peaceful,  dear  home  as  before. 

Again  the  spring  and  the  summer  wore  away, 
and  the  winter  came,  and  no  change  was  visible  in 
Wilhelm  Reutner's  household.  No  change  visible  1 
But  —  ah  !  beneath  its  surface  had  again  been  at 
work  far  deeper  forces  than  those  which  ripen 
spring  into  summer,  and  summer  into  the  garnered 
harvest  of  autumn. 

Margaret  loved  Karl !  What  subtle  triumphs 
love  knows  how  to  win  for  his  own  !  Karl  Reut 
ner's  heart  had  no  more  hope  in  it  now  than  it  had 
a  year  before;  no  less  now  than  then,  it  would 
have  seemed  to  him  like  blasphemy  to  ask  Mar 
garet  Warren  to  be  his  wife :  yet  there  were  days 
when  Margaret  could  not  see  daisies  without  tears, 
so  bitterly  did  her  heart  ache  to  recall  the  hour  in 
which  she  had  rejected  the  love  which  they  had 
once  symbolized  to  her. 

It  was  hard  to  tell  how  this  love  had  come.  Its 
growth  had  been  as  slow,  as  uninterrupted,  as  im 
mutable,  as  unsuspected  as  the  silent  growth  of 
crystals  deep  hidden  in  chambers  of  stone.  It  was 
long  before  Margaret  had  dreamed  of  it,  and  very 
long  before  she  had  admitted  it  to  herself.  She 
wrestled  with  it  bravely  j  it  was  against  her  will  ', 
she  did  not  choose  to  love  Karl  Reutner.  She 
was  no  less  proud  a  woman  this  year  than  last 


54  A   FOUR-LEAVED   CLOVER. 

She  had  no  less  dreams  and  purposes  for  the  future 
and  to  be  the  wife  of  Karl  Reutner  was  not  among 
them.  Nevertheless  it  had  come  to  pass  that  his 
presence  meant  happiness  to  her,  and  his  absence 
meant  a  vague  sense  of  discomfort  and  loss.  Vainty 
she  asked  herself  why.  Reason  was  silent  The 
great  interest  of  her  life  had  been,  —  still  was,  — 
in  books,  in  study,  in  progress  in  the  broadest 
sense.  Karl  Reutner  had  not  studied,  had  not 
read  ;  he  cared  more  for  the  laughing  eyes  of  a 
happy  child  than  for  all  the  discoveries  of  a  cent 
ury.  To  him  flowers  were  events ;  a  blue  sky,  and 
a  bright  sun,  and  smiles  at  home  were  life. 

The  new  world  of  which  he  had  glimpses  through 
Margaret's  conversation,  —  the  world  of  history, 
the  world  of  art,  the  world  of  science,  —  seemed  to 
him  very  great,  very  glorious.  He  kindled  at  men 
tion  of  noble  deeds,  at  descriptions  of  stirring 
scenes ;  but  it  was  partly  because  Margaret  found 
the  scenes  and  events  thrilling,  and  he  always  re 
turned  to  his  flowers  and  his  music  with  a  sense  of 
rest. 

Sometimes  when  playing  one  of  Mozart's  early 
sonatas,  so  divine  in  its  simplicity  and  sweetness 
and  strength,  he  would  say,  "  Ah,  Miss  Margaret,  it 
is  only  the  simple  tones  which  can  speak  the  truest. 
Listen  to  this;"  and  while  Margaret  listened,  it 
would  seem  to  her  that  the  world  and  its  kingdoms 
had  all  floated  away  in  space. 

"To   be  very  good,  and  to  make  that   all  are 


A   FOUR-LEAVED   CLOVER.  55 

happy,  Miss  Margaret,  is  that  not  enough  ?  "  he 
said  one  day.  He  had  grown  nearer  her,  and 
dared  to  speak  as  he  could  not  have  spoken  a  year 
ago.  "Is  not  that  enough  ?  Why  must  the  little 
men  think  they  can  understand  all  ?  This  world  is 
not  for  that.  It  is  that  we  are  made  pure  in  this. 
There  comes  another  world  for  the  rest.  That  is 
my  creed,  Miss  Margaret." 

But  Karl  did  not  add  the  rest  of  his  creed,  which 
was,  that  Margaret  had  the  light  of  both  worlds  in 
her  soul. 

Often  Margaret  felt  abashed  before  the  spiritu 
ality  of  this  man's  nature  ;  often  she  thought,  while 
she  looked  at  him,  that  he  had  indeed  entered  the 
kingdom  of  God  by  becoming  "  as  a  little  child." 
Then  again,  the  worldly,  the  ambitious  side  of  her 
nature  gained  the  ascendency,  and  she  said,  "  This 
is  a  merely  material  life  he  leads  after  all  ;  day's 
work  after' day's  work,  and  a  peasant's  song  at  the 
end !  What  have  I  in  common  with  him  ?  "  Oh, 
very  stoutly  the  carnal  heart  of  Margaret  Warren 
wrestled  with  the  angel  which  was  seeking  a  home 
m  it.  But  the  angel  was  the  stronger.  More  and 
more  clearly  shone  the  celestial  light ;  more  and 
more  clearly  Margaret  saw  the  celestial  face. 

It  was  a  year  and  a  day  since  Karl  came  home. 
Margaret  had  looked  forward  to  the  anniversary 
day  with  mingled  dread  and  hope.  The  pretty 
daisy -box  had  long  ago  been  taken  away  from  her 
room ;  the  daisies  had  bloomed  their  day  out,  and 


56  A   FOUR-LEAVED  CLOVER. 

died,  and  other  flowers  had  taken  their  place. 
Margaret  wondeied  if  Karl  would  give  her  another 
such  token.  Except  for  the  deep  yearning  desire 
in  her  heart  that  he  should  so  do,  she  would  have 
known  that  nothing  was  less  likely  than  that  he 
should  do  anything  on  that  day  to  remind  her  of  its 
being  an  anniversary.  The  day  passed  without 
even  an  allusion  from  any  one  to  the  past.  In  all 
hearts  there  was  too  sore  a  memory  of  the  last 
year.  Margaret  felt  this  keenly.  "  Alien  that  I 
am  in  this  house,"  she  thought,  "  I  make  it  impos 
sible  for  them  to  keep  the  festivals  of  their  love. 
Two  years  since  Karl  came  home — only  two  years 
and  it  seems  to  me  that  it  is  a  life-time." 

It  was  near  sunset.  A  rosy  glow  was  suffusing 
the  lake,  and  Margaret  sat  again  at  her  window 
watching  it.  Again  came  a  low  knock  at  her  door, 
and  again  she  answered  without  turning  her  head, 
and  Karl  entered. 

"Miss  Margaret,"  he  said,  "may  I  come  and 
talk  with  you  ?  It  is  that  I  wish  that  we  all  go  to 
another  house  to  live.  This  is  not  as  it  should  be ; 
it  is  small.  I  have  talked  much  with  Wilhelm,  and 
I  can  pay  all  the  money,  but  he  will  not.  He  is 
tvrong ;  and  will  not  you,  Miss  Margaret,  help  me 
to  make  that  he  sees  the  truth  ?  For  the  little  ones, 
when  they  are  large,  it  will  be  that  they  must  know 
more  people  ;  this  place  is  not  right.  And  you  too, 
Miss  Margaret,  it  is  always  grief  to  me  that  your 
-ooms  are  so  small.  You  should  have  large  rooms 
and  many  windows  for  the  south  sun  until  night." 


A   FOUR-LEAVED   CLOVER.  $J 

Margaret  glanced  lovingly  round  the  rooms. 

"  I  love  these  little  rooms,"  she  said,  impulsively ; 
"  I  should  be  very  sorry  to  leave  them."  As  she 
spoke,  a  sudden  memory  of  the  daisy-box  flashed 
into  her  mind.  Her  eyes  rilled  with  tears,  and  she 
could  not  hide  them. 

Karl  stretched  out  both  hands  with  an  eager  ges 
ture,  exclaiming,  "  But  Miss  Margaret,  Miss  Mar 
garet,  it  shall  not  be,  if  it  is  pain  to  you.  I  did 
not  dream  that  you  would  be  sorry  to  go.  I  will 
no  more  say." 

"It  is  not  that,  Mr.  Reutner,"  said  Margaret, 
"  not  at  all.  I  believe  it  would  be  better  for  all 
to  have  a  larger  house  ;  I  did  not  mean  that  I 
would  be  really  unwilling  to  leave  these  rooms  ;  I 
was  thinking  of  something  else,"  and  again  the 
tears  rilled  her  eyes. 

"Oh,  Miss  Margaret!"  cried  Karl.  He  had 
never  seen  tears  in  her  eyes  before.  The  sight 
unmanned  him.  His  "  Oh,  Miss  Margaret !  "  was  a 
cry  from  the  very  depths  of  his  heart. 

The  hour  had  come.  Who  keeps  calendar  for 
the  flowers  that  each  blossom  bides  its  time,  and 
blooms  at  its  fated  second  by  sun,  by  moon,  by 
star,  or  by  breeze !  Who  keeps  calendar  for 
hearts  ? 

The  hour  had  come.  Margaret  looked  full  into 
Karl's  face,  and  said  in  a  low  voice,  "  I  was  think 
ing  of  a  year  ago  yesterday,  Mr.  Reutner ;  and  I 
was  so  sorry  for  having  made  you  unhappy  then." 


58  A   FOUR-LEAVED   CLOVER. 

Astonishment  and  wounded  feeling  struggled 
on  Karl's  features  for  a  second.  That  Margaret 
should  voluntarily  allude  to  that  bitter  day  seemed 
heartless  indeed.  In  the  next  second,  something 
in  her  face  smote  on  his  sight,  dazzling,  bewilder 
ing,  terrifying  him.  The  celestial  light  in  her 
heart  shone  through  her  eyes. 

Karl  gave  one  piercing  look,  piercing  as  if  he 
were  seeking  to  read  some  farthest  star,  —  then 
sank  slowly  on  his  knees,  buried  his  face  in  Marga 
ret's  lap,  and  spoke  no  word.  Margaret  laid  one 
hand  lightly  on  his  head.  Tremblingly  he  took  it, 
lifted  his  head,  still  without  looking  into  her  face, 
and  laid  his  cheek  down  on  the  firm  soft  palm. 

Karl  Reutner  could  not  speak.  He  did  not  dis 
tinctly  know  whether  he  were  alive.  With  her  free 
hand,  Margaret  stroked  his  hair  as  she  might  that 
of  a  tired  child.  An  ineffable  peace  filled  her  soul. 
At  last,  Karl  said,  very  slowly,  almost  stammer- 
ingly,  without  lifting  his  head,  "  Miss  Margaret, 
beautiful  angel  of  God,  I  cannot  look  in  your  eyes  ; 
to  see  them  again  would  make  my  heart  stop  to 
beat  Will  you  let  that  I  go  away  from  you  now, 
out  under  the  sky  ?  When  I  can  come  back,  even 
if  it  is  a  long  time,  may  I  come  to  you  ?  " 

Margaret  bent  her  head  and  whispered  "vcs 
Karl." 

He  stooped  still  lower,  kissed  the  hem  of  the 
gown  on  whose  folds  he  had  been  kneeling,  and 
then  without  one  look  at  Margaret,  went  slowly  out 


A    FOUR-LEAVED   CLOVER.  59 

of  the  room.  When  he  came  back,  the  twilight 
was  nearly  over ;  stars  were  beginning  to  shine  in 
the  sky ;  Margaret  had  not  moved  from  her  seat ; 
the  door  stood  still  ajar  as  he  had  left  it ;  softly, 
so  softly,  that  his  steps  could  hardly  be  heard,  he 
crossed  the  room,  and  stood,  silent,  before  her  ; 
then  he  lifted  his  hands  high  above  her  head,  and 
opening  them,  let  fall  a  shower  of  daisies  :  on  her 
neck,  bosom,  lap,  feet,  everywhere,  rested  the  fra 
grant  blossoms. 

"  Now  you  will  let  that  they  tell  you  all,"  he  said  ; 
"now  you  will  let  that  they  lie  at  your  feet." 

His  tone  was  grave  and  calm  ;  his  looks  were 
grave  and  calm :  but  his  eyes  shone  with  such  joy, 
such  rapture,  that  Margaret,  in  her  turn,  found  it 
hard  to  meet  them. 

An  hour  later,  when  Karl  and  Margaret  went 
into  the  dining-room,  hand  in  hand,  Wilhelm  and 
Annette  gazed  at  them  for  a  moment  in  speechless 
wonder.  Then  Annette  ran  out  of  the  room  sob- 
b'ng.  Wilhelm  said  aloud  :  "  God  be  praised  !  " 
Then  walking  swiftly  towards  them,  he  looked  first 
into  Margaret's  face,  then  into  Karl's,  and  ex 
claimed  again  :  "  God  be  praised." 

"Wilhelm,"  said  Margaret,  "will  you,  too,  for 
give  me  for  the  day  I  made  sad  for  you  a  year  ago  ? 
Karl  has  forgiven  it." 

Wilhelm 's  answer  was  a  look.  Then  he  fell  on 
Carl's  neck,  and  was  not  ashamed  of  the  tears 
chat  would  come.  Not  often  do  two  men  love  as 
did  these  twin  brothers. 


60  A   FOUR-LEAVED   CLOVER. 

It  all  seemed  to  Wilhelm  and  Annette  impossi 
ble,  incredible.  Their  eyes  followed  Karl,  followed 
Margaret  with  an  expression  which  was  half  joy 
and  half  fear.  But  to  Karl  and  Margaret  the  new 
happiness  seemed  strangely  natural,  assured.  Like 
a  crystal  hidden  in  stone,  it  had  grown,  and  now 
that  the  store  had  been  broken  open,  and  the  crys 
tal  set  free,  every  ray  of  the  sun  that  fell  on  it  wa* 
multiplied,  and  the  brilliant  light  seemed  only  in 
evitable. 

Later  in  the  evening  Karl  put  a  ring  upon  Marga 
ret's  finger.  It  was  dark,  and  she  could  not  see  the 
design. 

"  Could  you  promise  not  to  see  till  the  sunlight 
should  come  to-morrow?"  said  Karl.  "I  would 
like  that  the  sun  should  light  it  up  first  for  your 
eyes." 

Margaret  smiled.  "  Oh,  foolish  Karl  !  I  will  try 
not  to  look ;  but  you  ask  a  great  deal." 

Karl  turned  the  ring  round  and  round  on  the 
finger,  as  Margaret's  hand  lay  in  his. 

"  I  have  a  long  time  had  this  ring,  —  more  than 
one  year.  It  was  to  be  for  you  if  I  died,  or  if 

you  were  to  be  married  to "  Karl  could  not 

now  pronounce  the  words  "  another  man."  He 
went  on  :  "I  thought  that  then  you  would  wear  it 
and  not  be  angry.  I  not  once  thought  I  could  put 
it  on  for  you  with  my  own  hand  ;  "  and  Karl  lifted 
both  Margaret's  hands,  covered  them  with  k'.sses, 
laid  them  against  his  cheek,  on  his  f orehen  d,  on 
nis  heart. 


A   FOUR-LEAVED   CLOVER.  6 1 

It  was  strange  to  see  this  lover,  in  these  few 
hours,  already  so  free  from  fear.  His  child-like 
simplicity  of  nature  was  the  secret  of  it.  Know 
ing  Margaret  to  be  his  own,  he  joyed  in  her  as  he 
joyed  in  sunlight.  He  took  the  delights  of  seeing 
and  touching  her,  as  freely  as  he  would  bask  under 
the  blue  sky.  He  could  no  more  feel  restraint 
from  one  than  from  the  other. 

"Karl,  if  you  really  do  not  want  me  to  see  the 
ring,  you  must  roll  a  tiny  bit  of  paper  round  it," 
said  Margaret.  "It  feels  very  large." 

"  Yes,  it  is  large.  It  could  not  be  small  to  tell 
what  it  tells,"  replied  Karl,  rolling  a  fine  tissue 
paper  carefully  over  and  under  it,  and  twisting  it 
firmly.  "Mine  own,  mine  own,"  he  said,  kissing 
the  hand  and  the  ring,  "  when  the  to-morrow  sun 
shines  from  the  lake  to  your  bed,  lift  your  hand  in 
the  light  and  look." 

When  the  "  to-morrow  sun  "  first  shone  on  Mar 
garet's  bed,  Margaret  was  asleep.  When  she 
waked,  the  room  was  flooded  with  yellow  light. 
Dimly  at  first,  like  memories  of  dreams,  came  the 
recollections  of  her  new  happiness ;  then  clearer 
and  clearer  in  triumphant  joy.  She  raised  her  left 
hand  in  the  great  yellow  sunbeams,  which  seemed 
to  make  a  golden  pathway  from  the  very  sky  to  her 
bed.  Slowly  she  unwound  the  rosy  tissue  paper  from 
her  ring.  A  low  cry  of  astonishment  broke  from 
her  lips.  She  had  never  seen  anything  so  beau/i 
fill.  On  a  broad  gold  band  was  curled  a  tiny  thread 


62  A   FOUR-LEAVED    CLOVER. 

like  stem,  bearing  a  four-leaved  clover  of  dark 
green  enamel.  The  edge  of  each  leaf  was  set  thick 
with  diamonds,  and  the  lines  down  the  centre  \\ere 
marked  by  diamonds,  so  small,  as  to  be  little  more 
than  shining  points.  Margaret's  second  thought 
was  one  of  dismay.  "  Oh,  the  wicked  Karl !  To 
spend  so  much  money !  It  would  almost  furnish 
our  little  house.  What  shall  I  do  with  such  a  ring 
as  this  ? " 

But  surprises  were  in  store  for  Margaret.  When 
she  gently  reproached  Karl  for  having  spent  so 
much  money  on  the  ring,  his  face  flushed,  and  he 
hesitated  a  moment  before  replying.  Then  he  said, 
with  inexpressible  sweetness,  taking  both  her  hands 
in  his,  "  My  Margaret,  I  have  much  money.  I  was 
glad  before,  for  Wilhelm,  and  the  little  ones.  But 
now  that  I  can  make  all  beautiful  for  you,  I  so 
much  thank  God.  It  was  a  chance  that  I  have  it. 
I  know  not  how  to  find  it,  as  your  people  do.  It 
was  the  land." 

Karl  Reutner  was  indeed  a  rich  man.  Lands 
which  he  had  bought  a  few  years  before,  for,  as  he 
said,  "  such  little  of  money,"  were  now  a  fortune 
in  themselves.  And  it  was  in  consequence  of  this 
increase  of  his  wealth  that  he  had  so  earnestly  be 
sought  his  brother  Wilhelm  to  let  him  provide  a 
new  home  for  the  family. 

"  But  now,  my  Margaret,  it  shall  be  for  you,"  he 
said.  "  I  hope  that  there  shall  be  enough  that  you 
have  all  things  you  have  ever  had  dream  of." 


A   FOUR-LEAVED   CLOVER.  63 

Margaret  sighed.  Almost  she  regretted  this 
wealth.  It  was  not  thus  she  had  pictured  her  life 
with  Karl.  But  her  love  of  beauty,  of  culture,  of 
art,  was  too  strong  for  her  to  be  long  reluctant  that 
the  fullness  of  life  should  come  to  her. 

"  Oh  Karl !  Karl !  "  she  said,  "  I  cannot  believe 
that  I  arn  to  have  you,  and  all  else  in  life  besides. 
Dear  one,  I  do  not  deserve  it." 

Karl  was  lying  at  her  feet,  his  head  resting  on 
her  knees,  as  he  had  bowed  it  when  he  first  knew 
that  she  loved  him  ;  only  that  now  he  dared  to 
gaze  steadily  into  her  eyes.  He  did  not  reply  for 
some  moments,  then  he  said  :  — 

"  The  good  God  knows,  my  Margaret.  Perhaps 
there  will  come  sorrow  for  you,  if  it  needs  for  his 
Heaven  that  you  be  more  of  angel  than  you  are. 
But  for  my  love,  that  is  only  like  the  daisies.  It  is 
enough  that  it  can  make  a  beautiful  ground  where 
you  walk." 

Since  these  things  which  I  have  written,  many 
years  have  gone  by,  and  have  not  yet  brought  sor 
row  to  Margaret.  The  windows  of  her  beautiful 
home  look  out  on  the  blue  lake  ;  and  into  the 
nursery  where  her  golden-haired  children  sleep, 
the  morning  sun  sends  its  first  beams,  as  it  used 
to  send  them  into  her  tiny  room,  in  Wilhelm  Reut- 
ner's  house. 

On  the  wall  of  Margaret's  own  room  hangs  the 
picture  of  Konigsee,  and  the  head  of  the  shadowy 
maiden  of  Ischl  still  wreathed  with  edelweiss  bios- 
corns. 


64  A   FOUR-LEAVED   CLOVER. 

"  I  love  her,  my  Karl.  She  told  me  that  thou 
wert  not  dead.  She  is  glad  of  thy  joy  each  hour," 
Margaret  often  says. 

On  the  right  hand  of  the  portrait  of  Konigsee, 
framed  in  velvet  and  ivory,  and  also  wreathed  by 
edelweiss  blossoms,  hangs  an  oval  of  soft  gray  sur 
face,  on  which  is  a  tiny  and  faded  and  crumpled 
clover,  "  the  four  leaf  of  clover  ;  " —  "which  saved 
my  papa's  life,"  little  Karl  says,  pointing  to  it  with 
his  chubby  finger,  "  my  papa  says  so."  When  lit 
tle  Karl  is  older  he  will  understand  better.  This 
too  is  wreathed  with  edelweiss  blossoms,  fresher 
and  whiter  than  the  others.  Margaret  also  has 
sailed  with  Karl  on  the  Konigsee,  and  she  gathered 
these  edelweiss  flowers  on  the  edge  of  the  Watzman 
glacier. 

Above  these  hangs  a  quaint  old  bit  of  heraldry. 
It  is  the  coat  of  arms  of  the  Whitson  family,  and 
belonged  to  Margaret's  grandmother,  who  was  a 
Whitson,  and  well-to-do,  years  ago  in  England.  It 
is  an  odd  thing,  and  to  some  minds  much  more 
than  an  odd  thing,  that  this  old  coat  of  arms  should 
be  an  oak  tree  in  a  clover  field,  and  that  there 
should  be  a  tale  how  once  when  a  sorely  pressed 
king  of  England  was  escaping  from  his  pursuers 
he  came  to  a  field  of  purple  clover,  with  an  oak 
^ree  in  its  centre  ;  and  that  a  churl  Whitson,  to 
whom  the  field  belonged,  and  who  chanced  to  be 
mowing  it  that  day,  helped  the  king  up  into  the 
oak  tree,  and  lied  bravely  to  the  pursuers,  saying 


A  FOUR-LEAVED   CLOVER.  65 

that  no  man  had  passed  that  way;  so  the  king, 
grateful  for  his  life,  gave  lands  to  the  churl,  and  the 
right  to  a  crest  bearing  the  oak  and  the  clover. 

This,  I  say,  is  an  odd  thing,  and  to  some  people 
more  than  an  odd  thing.  To  Karl  Reutner,  for 
instance,  who  is  so  impressed  by  it,  that  he  has 
had  garlands  of  oak  and  clover  leaves  carved  on 
the  cradle  in  which  all  his  babies  sleep  ;  garlands 
of  oak  and  clover  leaves  carved  over  the  doors  and 
windows  of  his  wife's  room ;  garlands  of  oak  and 
clover  leaves  wrought  on  silver  and  on  glass  to  hold 
choice  fruits  and  wines  ;  and  wrought  of  gold  and 
gems  in  many  a  dainty  device  for  his  wife  to  wear. 
And  those  who  look  closely  at  these  garlands  find 
that  there  is  not  one  without  a  four-leaved  clover. 


FARMER  BASSETT'S  ROMANCE. 


IT  began  at  a  camp-meeting ;  and  the  odd  thing 
was  that  John  Bassett  should  have  been  at  a 
camp-meeting  at  all.  He  had  no  more  respect  for 
such  means  of  grace  than  Epictetus  or  any  other 
stoical  pagan  would  have  had.  He  had  no  antago 
nism  toward  the  Methodists  ;  nor,  for  that  matter, 
toward  any  of  the  five  so-called  religious  sects 
which  had  places  of  worship  in  his  native  town, 
Deerway.  If  the  whole  truth  could  have  been 
known,  it  would  have  been  seen  that  he  classed 
them  all  together,  and  favored  them  alike  with  his 
heartiest  but  most  good-natured  contempt.  Luck 
ily  he  was  a  silent  and  reticent  man,  and  his  towns 
men  never  suspected  in  what  low  esteem  he  held 
their  sectarian  bonds,  —  their  spiritual  ecstasies 
and  depressions.  They  only  thought  that  he  was 
"  queer,"  and  some  of  the  more  zealous  Christians 
among  them  feared  he  might  be  an  infidel,  or  at 
best  a  pantheist,  though  as  to  what  that  latter  man 
ner  of  man  might  be,  there  were  very  vague  ideas 


FARMER  BASSE  TT^S  ROMANCE.  67 

in  Deerway.  The  truth  was,  that  John  Bassett  was 
a  pagan,  —  a  New  England  pagan.  There  are  a 
few  of  these  in  every  New  England  county.  Thej 
are  the  offspring  of  the  Westminster  Catechism. 
Apply  enough  of  the  Westminster  Catechism  to  a 
meditative,  clear-witted,  logical,  phlegmatic  boy,  in 
his  youth ;  let  him  spend  most  of  his  days  out  on 
sunny  hill-sides,  thinking  it  over  in  silence,  and 
asking  nobody  any  questions,  and  the  chances  are 
that,  when  he  is  twenty-one,  he  will  quit  going 
to  church,  and  be  a  high-minded  pagan.  He  will 
have  absorbed  much  that  is  grand  and  ennobling ; 
but  he  will  have  thrown  away,  in  his  slow-growing 
hatred  of  the  cruel  husk,  part  of  the  sweet  kernel 
also,  and  will  be  a  defrauded  and  robbed  man  all 
his  days,  for  lack  of  true  comprehension  of  the 
Gospel  of  Christ,  which  is  loving,  and  of  Christ's 
Father,  who  is  love. 

It  is  evident  that  a  camp-meeting  was  the  last 
place  one  would  expect  to  see  John  Bassett  in.  If 
pools  had  been  the  fashion  in  Deerway,  one  might 
have  made  a  fortune  betting  against  the  chance  of 
John  Bassett's  hearing  Bishop  Worrell's  sermon  on 
the  last  day  of  the  Middleburg  camp-meeting.  But 
he  did  hear  it,  every  word  of  it. 

He  had  been  that  day  to  Northborough,  ten  miles 
above  Middleburg,  to  look  at  a  pair  of  prize  oxen 
he  had  heard  of,  and  had  a  mind  to  buy.  If  those 
oxen  had  not  been  sold  the  day  before,  John  Bas- 
sett  would  have  bought  them,  and  this  story  would 


68  FARMER  B ASSETS S  ROMANCE. 

never  have  been  written ;  for  if  he  had  had  the 
oxen  to  drive  home,  he  would  not  nave  got  down 
to  Middleburg  till  late  at  night,  and  the  camp-meet 
ing  would  have  been  over.  As  it  was,  he  got  to 
Middleburg  Crossing  at  three  o'clock  in  the  after 
noon;  and  there  he  had  to  stop,  for  Jerry,  his 
horse,  had  cast  a  shoe,  and  John  Bassett  would  no 
more  have  driven  Jerry  ten  miles  with  one  foot  un 
shod  than  he  would  have  walked  it  barefoot  him 
self  ;  no,  nor  half  as  quick,  for  Tom  and  Jerry,  the 
two  beautiful  bay  horses  that  he  had  broken  as 
colts,  and  trained  into  the  best  ten-year-old  team  in 
all  Wenshire  County,  were  the  pride  and  the  love 
of  John  Bassett's  heart. 

So,  there  is  another  little  "  if  "  which  might  have 
made  a  big  difference  to  John  Bassett,  and  all  the 
difference  between  this  story's  being  written  and 
not.  If  Jerry  had  not  cast  his  shoe,  his  master 
would  never  have  heard  Bishop  Worrell's  sermon. 

There  are  only  three  houses  at  Middleburg 
Crossing ;  the  town  itself  is  four  miles  farther 
south.  One  of  these  houses  is  a  sort  of  inn,  and 
the  master,  Hiram  Peet,  is  well  known  to  be  the 
best  blacksmith  for  many  a  mile  round.  Here 
John  stopped  and  fastened  his  horse  at  the  door  of 
the  forge,  which  was  black  and  still. 

"  Gone  to  that  confounded  camp-meeting !  "  he 
exclaimed,  as  he  stood  by  the  anvil  and  tapped  ii 
impatiently  with  his  whip.  "  Hang  it  all.  I  won- 
ier,  if  I  could  find  him,  whether  he  'd  come  out 
and  shoe  Jerry." 


FARMER  BASSETT'S  ROMANCE.  69 

Every  blind  in  the  house  was  shut.  The  hens 
walked  about  with  an  expression  which  showed  that 
the  family  was  away  from  home,  and  the  cat  looked 
out  uneasy  and  suspicious  from  a  high  loft  over  the 
corn-house. 

John  walked  a  few  steps  down  the  road  and 
looked  at  the  two  other  houses.  Shut  up  also;  not 
a  trace  of  life  about  them.  The  two  Thatcher 
brothers,  who  married  sisters,  lived  in  these  houses. 
"  Well,  I  don't  know  what  the  Thatcher  folks  have 
got  to  do  over  at  camp-meeting,"  thought  John. 
"They're  all  Baptists.  They  don't  train  in  that 
crowd." 

He  had  thought  that  he  might  while  away  the 
time  by  talking  with  Mrs.  Susan  Thatcher,  who  was 
a  woman  he  had  once  almost  thought  he  would  like 
to  marry.  John  was  much  vexed.  He  walked  up 
and  down  the  road  and  switched  off  the  tops  of 
golden  rod  and  purple  asters  in  a  way  that  was 
really  shameful.  He  was  at  his  wit's  ends  :  ten 
miles  from  home ;  Jerry  waiting  to  be  shod  ;  not  a 
human  being  to  be  found.  But  John  Bassett's  im 
patiences  never  lasted  long.  He  was  too  good  a 
pagan  to  fret  and  fume.  He  took  Jerry  out  of  his 
harness,  led  him  into  the  barn,  and  gave  him  so 
delightful  a  rubbing  down  that  the  creature  arched 
his  shining  neck  and  looked  around  at  his  mas 
ters  hands,  and  would  have  purred  if  he  could,  he 
felt  so  comfortable.  John  patted  him  and  talked 
to  him  as  if  he  were  a  child. 


fO  FARMER  BASSE TT'S  ROMANCE. 

"There,  there,  old  fellow,"  he  said,  "eat  your 
oats.  You  shall  have  four  fine  new  shoes  pres 
ently  ;  and  then  we  won't  get  caught  this  way 
again  very  soon." 

Jerry  whinnied  back  and  did  his  best  to  be  en 
tertaining;  but  where  was  there  ever  a  mortal  man 
who  did  not  weary  of  wordless  affection  ?  John 
began  to  be  sadly  bored.  He  looked  over  at  the 
camp-meeting  hill,  where  thin  columns  of  smoke 
were  curling  up  above  the  tops  of  the  trees.  The 
Middleburg  camp-ground  is  one  of  the  oldest  in 
New  England;  it  has  been  used  as  such  for  twenty 
years,  and  there  are  some  eighty  cottages  in  the 
"circle."  People  go  there  in  June,  and  live  in 
their  cottages  for  two  months  or  more  before  the 
camp-meeting  week  begins.  John  had  often  thought 
he  would  like  to  see  what  kind  of  a  life  it  was  that 
the  Methodist  people  led  on  their  religious  picnics, 
as  the  worldly  were  in  the  habit  of  calling  them. 
He  began  to  consider  within  himself  whether  this 
were  not  a  capital  chance  for  doing  it  without  any 
loss  of  self-respect  on  his  part.  He  would  go  over 
and  see  if  he  could  find  Hiram  Peet.  This  was 
not  going  to  camp-meeting.  Oh,  no  ! 

The  camp-meeting  grove  was  not  more  than  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  from  the  forge.  At  John  Bas 
set  t's  goodly  stride,  this  distance  was  quickly 
walked ;  and  almost  before  he  fairly  realized  what 
he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  do,  John  found  him 
self  in  the  throng  of  people  pouring  through  the 


FARMER  BASSETT'S  ROMANCE.  Jl 

outer  gate.  He  and  his  ways  were  well  known  in 
all  this  region,  —  everybody  stared  to  see  him  com 
ing  to  camp-meeting. 

"  Hollo,  John  !     Ez  this  you  ?  "  exclaimed  one. 

"  What 's  up  ?  "  said  another. 

"  Glad  to  see  you  in  the  right  way  at  last,  John," 
called  out  a  gray-haired  elder  of  the  Methodist 
church  in  Deerway. 

John  did  not  like  this.  At  first  he  made  no 
reply,  except  a  good-natured  laugh ;  but  presently, 
to  a  townsman  who  shouted  out,  across  many 
heads,  — 

"  Why,  John  Bassett,  what  on  airth  's  brought  you 
here,  I  'd  like  to  know,"  he  answered  in  an  equally 
loud  tone,  — 

"  Not  any  of  the  tomfoolery  that 's  brought  you, 
I  can  tell  you  that.  I  'm  looking  after  Hi  Peet  to 
shoe  my  horse,  back  here  at  the  Crossing." 

"Oh,  Hi?  Well,  he's  in  there,  in  the  seats, 
along  o'  his  folks.  But  you  won't  get  him  to  come 
out  till  after  the  sermon.  The  bishop's  jest  be- 
ginm'n'  now." 

John  walked  on  in  silence.  The  scene  was  be 
ginning  to  take  a  vivid  hold  on  his  imagination. 
From  his  earliest  boyhood  he  had  had  a  passionate 
love  of  the  woods.  There  was  not  a  wood  within 
five  miles  of  his  father's  house  which  he  did  not 
know  as  thoroughly  as  if  he  had  been  an  Indian  or 
a  trapper.  The  young  trees  had  grown  with  his 
growth  and  strengthened  with  his  strength;  he 


72  FARMER  BASSETT'S  ROMANCE. 

often  pushed  his  way  through  some  thick  wood, 
recollecting,  step  by  step,  along  the  path,  how 
twenty  years  ago  these  stalwart  trees  had  been  sap 
lings  he  could  bend.  No  smallest  leaf  or  fern  was 
unknown  to  his  eye ;  no  flower,  no  berry ;  yet  he 
had  names  for  few.  To  see  a  great  maple  and  ash 
and  hickory  grove  swarming  full  of  human  beings, 
was  at  first  as  strange  a  sight  to  John  Bassett  as  it 
would  have  been  to  a  devout  Roman  Catholic  to 
come  suddenly  upon  his  private  chapel  and  find  it 
crowded  with  strangers.  John  felt  a  mingled  irri 
tation  and  fascination  in  the  sight.  This  noble 
army  of  trees  seemed  to  lend  something  of  their 
own  sacred  dignity  to  the  motley  multitude  they 
were  sheltering.  There  were  three  thousand  people 
that  day  on  the  Micldleburg  camp-ground.  As  far 
as  one  could  see,  the  vistas  between  the  trees  were 
filled  by  horses,  wagons,  carriages  of  all  descrip 
tions.  These  were  outside  what  is  called  the  "  cir 
cle,"  a  large  space  of  many  acres,  fenced  in,  and  to 
be  entered  only  by  gates  ;  within  this  circle  were 
the  cottages,  all  picturesquely  disposed  among  the 
tiees;  winding  and  irregular  paths  had  been  trod 
den  from  one  to  another,  and  there  was  almost  the 
semblance  of  a  street  in  some  places.  But  still  the 
trees  were  left  undisturbed ;  the  street  or  the  path 
turned  reverentially  to  the  right  or  the  left,  as  the 
tree  might  require.  Hardly  a  tree  had  been  cut 
down.  In  the  centre  of  the  grove  a  large  space 
fcad  been  filled  in  with  rough  wooden  benches  in 


FARMER  BASSETT'S  ROMANCE.  73 

an  amphitheatre-like  half  circle.  Even  here  stood 
the  trees,  thick  and  undisturbed,  making  of  the 
circle  of  seats  a  many-pillared  temple,  canopied 
with  green  and  roofed  with  blue.  Fronting  this 
had  been  built  an  elevated  platform  for  the  elders 
and  the  preaching — and  on  this,  at  the  moment 
John  entered  the  circle,  had  just  risen  a  corpulent, 
round-faced,  sonorous-voiced  man,  Bishop  Worrell, 
who  was  to  preach  that  afternoon's  sermon.  John 
stopped,  leaned  against  a  young  hickory  tree,  and 
looked  carefully  up  and  down  the  rows  of  seats  in 
search  of  Hiram  Peet.  At  last  he  saw  him  sitting 
between  his  wife  and  his  wife's  mother,  in  the  very 
middle  of  the  circle,  and  only  five  seats  back  from 
the  platform. 

"  I  suppose  it  would  be  as  much  as  Hi's  life  was 
worth  to  get  up  and  come  out  from  there  before  all 
tLese  people,"  thought  John.  "  I  might  as  well 
give  it  up." 

Then  he  fell  to  laughing  so  immoderately  at  Hi's 
expression  of  face,  that  he  had  to  turn  suddenly 
away,  lest  he  should  shock  the  sensibilities  of  the 
grave  and  decorous  congregation.  As  he  turned, 
he  suddenly  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  piofile  of  a 
girl  who  sat  in  the  same  seat  with  Hiram  Peet,  but 
at  the  farther  end  of  it.  The  sight  of  this  profile 
^nested  John  Bassett's  steps  as  suddenly  as  a 
Strong  hand  laid  on  his  shoulder  could  have  done. 
He  stood  still.,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  face.  He 
4id  not  say  to  himself,  "  How  beautiful ! "  he  did 


74  FARMER  BASSETT'S  ROMANCE. 

not  even  think  whether  the  face  were  beautiful  01 
not  —  it  simply  arrested  him,  that  was  all.  Pres« 
ently  the  girl  changed  her  position  so  that  he  could 
no  longer  see  her  face,  and  with  a  pang  like  terror, 
he  saw  it  suddenly  vanish  from  his  gaze,  and  be 
come  lost  and  merged  in  the  great  mass  of  bonnets 
and  hats  and  faces.  He  tried  to  keep  his  eyes 
resolutely  on  the  spot  where  it  had  disappeared, 
as  one  tries  to  keep  his  eyes  fastened  on  the  spot 
where  something  has  gone  down  at  sea ;  but  like 
the  sea,  the  mass  of  faces  seemed  dancing  and 
shifting  under  his  look.  At  last  he  was  rewarded. 
The  girl  turned  her  head  again,  so  that  for  one 
brief  moment  he  saw  her  profile,  and  also  noted, 
with  the  eagerness  of  a  detective,  that  she  wore  a 
black  hat,  with  one  single  upright  feather  of  bright 
scarlet  in  it. 

Slowly,  and  with  a  bewildered  wonder  at  himself 
all  the  time,  John  skirted  the  great  semicircle  of 
seats,  pushed  his  way  through  and  past  knot  after 
knot  of  men  and  women,  and  drew  nearer  and 
nearer  the  seat  where  the  girl  sat.  As  one  after 
another  saw  him,  noted  his  absorbed  and  grave 
look,  exclamations  and  conjectures  were  whispered 
Dn  all  sides.  There  were  many  of  the  Deerway 
Methodists  on  the  ground. 

John  Bassett  stood  no  chance  of  being  unob 
served.  Many  a  soul  warmed  with  hope  for  his 
salvation  on  seeing  him  in  this  unwonted  place. 
One  good  old  Methodist  woman  who  had  nursed 


FARMER  BASSETT'S  ROMANCE.  ?$ 

ais  mother  through  several  illnesses,  and  who  had 
come  to  love  John  very  much,  as  all  persons  did 
who  knew  him  intimately,  plucked  her  neighbor 
suddenly  by  the  sleeve,  and  exclaimed  :  — 

"  My  goodness,  Sarah  Beman,  if  there  ain't  John 
—  John  Bassett,  don't  you  know  ?  Let 's  git  right 
down  on  our  knees  here  'n'  pray  for  his  soul ! 
Mebbe  the  Lord  '11  give  him  religion  right  now  ! " 
and  the  two  women  actually  sank  on  the  ground, 
and  were  rocking  back  and  forth  on  their  knees, 
wrestling  in  prayer  on  John's  behalf,  as  he  passed 
by  them.  Perhaps  there  was  never  a  moment  in 
his  life  in  which  he  was  more  in  need  of  prayers. 

When  he  reached  a  point  opposite  the  seat  in 
which  sat  the  girl  with  the  black  hat  and  scarlet 
feather,  he  turned,  and  slowly  looked  in  her  face. 
She  did  not  see  him.  She  was  listening  in  rapt  at 
tention  to  the  bishop's  sermon.  Yet  it  was  not  the 
attention  of  a  credulous  or  an  ecstatic  devotee. 
Her  face  wore  now  the  look  of  one  who  was  striv 
ing  to  penetrate  a  mystery;  to  fathom  a  secret; 
there  was  an  expression  of  something  like  disap 
probation  on  her  features.  All  this  John  Bassett 
saw  at  his  first  glance.  At  his  second,  he  per 
ceived  that  the  girl  was  no  country  girl ;  he  felt, 
rather  than  perceived,  that  her  whole  attire,  bear 
ing,  and  atmosphere  were  of  the  city  :  she  was  a 
stranger.  The  two  elderly  women  who  sat  with 
ber  were  richly  clad,  and  their  whole  manner  be- 
,okened  listless  weariness.  Up  to  this  moment. 


/6  FARMER  BASSETT'S  ROMANCE. 

John  Bassett  could  not  have  told,  if  he  h;  d  been 
asked,  whether  this  girl  were  fair  or  not ;  but  now 
in  the  more  assured  composure  of  his  new  stand 
point  of  observation,  he  began  to  study  her  features. 
They  were  of  delicate  mold,  indicating  sensibilily 
rather  than  strength.  Her  hair  was  of  so  pale  a 
yellow  that  only  its  great  thickness  saved  it  from 
looking  dead.  It  was  turned  back  from  her  low 
forehead  in  rippling  waves  which  were  too  thick  to 
lie  flat.  Her  eyes  were  of  a  clear,  bright  dark 
blue,  and  in  them  shone  a  sort  of  restrained  energy 
which  gave  to  her  face  the  strength  which  the  del 
icate  features  would  otherwise  have  lacked.  It  was 
not  a  beautiful  face.  It  was  very  far  from  a  pretty 
face.  But  it  was  a  face  to  arrest  one  at  first  sight. 
As  it  had  arrested  John  Bassett,  it  had  arrested 
many  a  human  being,  man  and  woman,  before. 

But  it  always  came  to  pass  that  each  human  be 
ing  thus  arrested  by  Fanny  Lane's  face,  very  soon 
forgot  all  about  her  face,  in  a  vivid  conscious 
ness  of  her  personality.  Her  individual  magnetism 
was  something  not  to  be  described,  not  to  be  de 
fined.  It  was  to  some  persons  as  powerfully  re- 
pellant  as  it  was  to  others  attracting.  There  were 
men  and  women  who  had  been  heard  to  say  that 
they  simply  could  not  stay  in  the  same  room  with 
Fanny  Lane,  so  disagreeable  to  them  was  her  very 
presence,  and  there  were  men  and  women  for  whom 
simply  her  presence  could  transform  the  most 
cheerless  room  into  a  palace  of  joy  and  for  whom 


FARMER   BASSE  TT^S  ROMAA'CE.  77 

her  love,  if  they  were  once  sure  of  possessing  it, 
seemed  enough  to  brighten  a  whole  life-time. 

Bishop  Worrell's  sermon  was  one  hour  long. 
Until  the  very  last  word  had  been  spoken,  John 
Bassett  stood  without  once  unfolding  his  arms  or 
once  removing  his  eyes  from  Fanny  Lane's  face  j 
but  he  stood  in  such  a  position  that  while  he  looked 
steadily  at  her,  he  seemed  to  those  about  him  to  be 
looking  in  the  preacher's  face,  and  the  intent  and 
grave  expression  of  his  countenance  gave  rise  to 
great  hopes  in  the  hearts  of  many  who  saw  him. 
After  the  benediction  had  been  pronounced,  there 
was  a  general  movement  in  fnt  audience,  and  all 
except  those  who  were  interested  in  the  special 
services  which  were  about  to  follow,  withdrew. 
More  than  half  of  the  seats  were  left  empty.  A 
little  knot  of  some  half  a  dozen  persons  had  gath 
ered  around  Fanny  Lane,  and  were  all  talking 
eagerly. 

"City  boarders  from  some  hotel  hereabouts," 
thought  John.  "  I  don't  suppose  I  shall  ever  set 
eyes  on  that  girl  again  ;  and  I  'm  sure  I  don't  know 
why  I  want  to."  But  he  lingered,  and  waited,  and 
furtively  watched  to  see  what  the  next  movements 
of  her  party  would  be. 

It  was  evident  that  an  animated  discussion  was 
going  on.  Fanny  Lane  said  little,  but  each  time 
she  spoke,  she  shook  her  head  with  great  decision, 
smiling  as  she  did  so  with  a  smile  which  was  to 
John  Bassett's  mind  a  very  perplexing  smile  j  there 


/8  FARMER  BASSE  TT 'S  ROMANCE. 

was  so  much  radiance  about  it,  and  yet  such  an  ex 
pression  of  immovable  will ;  it  seemed  as  much  out 
of  the  ordinary  course  of  human  smiles  as  a  cold 
sunbeam  would  out  of  the  ordinary  course  of  nat 
ure.  At  last  the  party  divided,  and  the  two  old 
ladies,  wearing  very  dissatisfied  faces,  walked  slowly 
away  with  the  majority,  leaving  Fanny  Lane  and 
one  other  young  woman  alone  in  the  seats.  As 
the  discomfited  elderly  people  passed  the  tier 
where  John  still  stood,  leaning  with  his  arms 
folded,  watching  in  feigned  carelessness  the  whole 
scene,  one  said  to  the  other :  — 

"  It 's  perfectly  absurd,  Maria,  the  way  you  spoil 
that  girl." 

A  look  of  fretful  impatience  passed  over  Maria's 
face  as  she  replied :  — 

"  It 's  all  very  fine  to  talk  about  spoiling,  Jane. 
You  know  as  well  as  I  do,  that  if  Fanny  makes  up 
her  mind  to  do  a  thing,  she  's  going  to  do  it,  come 
what  will ;  and  as  for  my  saying  '  must '  or 
'  mus'n't '  to  her,  I  know  better  than  to  try  that. 
She  's  just  like  her  father." 

"  Well,  I  reckon  she  's  your  own  child,"  answered 
Jane,  "  and  my  child  should  mind  me.  I  know 
that  much,"  and  the  party  passed  on. 

John  Bassett  smiled.  He  liked  the  picture  of 
the  fair  girl  triumphing  always.  He  felt  already 
that  it  was  her  right.  Before  the  smile  had  died 
off  his  face,  the  old  ladies  came  hurrying  back; 
'hey  had  noticed  his  grave,  honest,  clear-eyed  fice 


FARMER  BASSETT'S  ROMANCE.  75 

as  they  passed,  and  they  had  turned  back  to  ask 
him  one  of  those  anxiously  helpless  questions 
which  the  average  woman  is  perpetually  asking. 

"  Can  you  tell  us  where  Mr.  Goodenow's  wagon 
is  ? "  they  said. 

It  happened  that  John  could.  It  had  chanced 
that  as  he  walked  up  the  hill,  he  had  observed 
young  Luke  Goodenow  sitting  in  his  big  farm- 
wagon  playing  cards  on  the  back  seat  with  a 
stranger,  whose  whole  appearance  had  seemed  so 
suspicious  (to  John)  that  he  had  said  to  himself  as 
he  passed  by,  "  I  wonder  if  Luke  Goodenow  'd 
ever  be  such  a  fool  's  to  play  for  money ;  "  and  "  I 
wonder  if  that 's  the  reason  he  fastened  his  team 
down  in  that  hollow,"  was  his  second  thought. 

"Yes,"  said  John.  "I  can.  I  will  show  you," 
and  he  led  the  way,  thinking,  as  he  walked. 

"  So  these  folks  are  the  Goodenows'  boarders. 
Now  I  can  find  out  all  about  them." 

Luke  little  understood  John  Bassett's  affable 
kindness  in  helping  him  put  in  his  horses,  and  be 
ing  so  very  careful  in  examining  the  harnesses,  be 
fore  they  set  off.  John  was  listening  with  strained 
ears  to  what  one  of  the  elderly  women  was  saying 
to  Luke. 

"  Miss  Lane  and  Miss  Wheelwright  are  not  com 
ing  now.  They  wish  to  stay  till  the  end  of  the 
meeting.  They  have  friends  there  from  the  hotel 
who  will  take  care  of  them,  and  you  are  to  drive 
*ack  after  them  at  nine  o'clock  to-night. ' 


So  FARMER  BASS  ETrS  ROMANCE. 


"  Well,  I  swanny,"  was  Luke's  reply.  "  I  donno 
what  I  'm  goin'  to  do  for  hosses." 

The  city  lady  looked  calmly  in  his  face  with  the 
city  lady's  usual  incredulity  of  anything  being  im 
possible  in  the  country  town  where  she  is  spending 
her  summer,  and  said  :  — 

"  Oh,  it  won't  hurt  these  horses  to  come  back." 

Luke  did  not  deign  to  argue  this  point,  but  an 
swered  reflectively  :  — 

"  Mebbe  I  can  git  Smith's.  Hisn  warn't  out 
when  we  come  off,  an'  if  I  don't  go  for  the  girls, 
they  can  come  home  in  the  hotel  coach  ;  that 
warn't  full." 

"  Oh,  no  ;  I  should  much  prefer  that  you  should 
go  for  them,"  said  the  bland  lady.  "You  can 
surely  get  horses  somewhere." 

"  Tnere  ain't  any  'somewhere'  in  our  town 
mum,"  replied  Luke,  sententiously.  "  If  yer  don't 
know  jest  where  a  thing  is,  't  ain't  anywheres.  But 
I  '11  see  that  Miss  Fanny  's  got  home  somehow  or 
another." 

If  Fanny  Lane  had  heard  Luke's  reply,  the  un 
conscious  and  inimitable  philosophy  of  its  first 
clause  would  have  given  her  a  keen  delight  ;  but  it 
was  all  thrown  away  on  Aunt  Jane,  or  if  not 
thrown  away  entirely,  passed  for  nothing  more 
than  the  unintentional  impudence  of  a  farmer's 
lad.  So  that  her  orders  were  obeyed,  as  she  would 
have  called  it,  she  was  content  and  unobservant; 
and,  luckily  for  her  complacent  peace  of 


FARMER  BASSETT'S  ROMANCE.  8l 

wholly  unaware  how  far  from  the  thoughts  of  her 
.andlord  and  his  sons  was  any  comprehension  of 
the  idea  of  obedience  as  she  understood  it. 

When  John  Bassett  returned  to  his  post  of  ob 
servation  by  the  young  hickory-tree,  he  found  the 
scat  on  which  his  attention  had  been  so  long  con 
centrated  occupied  by  two  elderly  women  from 
Deerway,  —  his  own  next  door  neighbors.  With 
a  smothered  ejaculation  of  contempt  at  his  own 
folly,  he  made  a  hasty  retreat,  not  however  before 
both  the  women  had  seen  him,  and  had  beckoned 
to  him  with  eager  gestures  to  come  and  sit  by  their 
side.  He  shook  his  head  and  walked  rapidly  away 
in  the  opposite  direction,  as  if  he  were  about  to 
leave  the  grounds  j  each  moment,  however,  his 
keen  eyes  were  roving  to  the  right  and  to  the  left 
in  search  of  a  scarlet  feather.  Scarlet  feathers 
there  were  in  plenty,  and  knots  of  scarlet  ribbon, 
as  he  found  to  his  cost,  after  he  had  been  for  half 
an  hour  lured  vainly  about,  first  in  one  direction 
then  in  another,  by  them.  His  scarlet  feather  was 
nowhere  to  be  found.  To  look  for  one  person, 
among  three  thousand  people  roaming  about  in  a 
grove  of  several  acres,  is  like  searching  for  a 
needle  in  a  hay-stack ;  and  so  John  said  to  himself 
at  last,  and  vowed  he  would  look  no  longer.  He 
had  been  asking  all  the  time  for  "  Hi  Feet,"  and 
had  several  times  narrowly  escaped  finding  him. 
The  truth  was  he  did  not  now  so  much  want  to 
Snd  "  Hi  Feet,"  but  he  liked  to  give  himself  {he 
6 


82  FARMER  BASSETT'S  ROMANCE. 

shelter  of  that  ostensible  errand,  and  so  he  kep«, 
on  asking.  At  last  some  one  said  in  reply  to  his 
stereotyped  question,  "  Why  Hi  ?  —  Hi 's  up  in  the 
Franklin  tent  at  a  big  prayer-meetin'  they  've  got 
goin'  on  there.  You  might 's  well  give  up  all  idee 
of  gettin'  hold  of  Hi  Peet  to-night.  You  '11  have 
to  wait  till  morning.  Hi '11  keep  you  over  night 
fust  rate;  though  I  suppose  they  won't  break  up 
here  till  midnight." 

This  was  precisely  what  John  Bassett  had  in 
his  own  mind  determined  to  do,  but  he  replied  with 
a  diplomacy  worthy  of  a  deeper  game  :  — 

"  Well,  I  call  that  pretty  hard,  to  have  to  wait  all 
night  to  get  a  horse  shod,  don't  you  ?  " 
The  man  laughed,  and  answered  :  — 
"  Well,  yes,  I  do.      But  you  see,  it  's  just  your 
luck   that  makes   it  happen  so.     They  don't  have 
camp-meetin'  but  once  a  year ;  and  they  don't  have 
but  one  last  night  to   each  camp-meetin' :  an'  you 
could  n't  ha'  ketched  Hi  away  from  hum  one  o'  the 
other  three  hundred  an'  sixty-four  nights;  so  you 
see  it  's  nothin'  but  your  luck." 

This  curiously  illogical  logical  speech  made  John 
laugh  heartily,  and  a  half  shamed  consciousness  of 
the  scarlet  feather  in  his  thoughts  made  him  also 
flush  a  little  as  he  replied  :  — 

"  Well,  I  don't  believe  in  anything's  being  luck." 
]  ust  as  he  spoke  these  words,  he  heard  a  voice  be 
hind  him,  a  voice  of  a  quality  such  as  he  had  never 
Before  heard.  He  did  not  turn  his  head.  He  list 


FARMER  BASSETT'S  ROMANCE.  83 

ened,  and  it  was  an  odd  thing  that  as  he  listened, 
he  said  to  himself,  — 

"  If  that  is  n't  her  voice,  I  'm  mistaken." 

The  voice  said  :  — 

"  Can  I  sit  for  a  few  moments  in  one  of  these 
chairs,  till  my  friends  return  ?  " 

The  voice  was  so  near  that  John  walked  away  a 
few  steps,  before  he  turned  to  see  who  had  spoken. 
He  walked  on  and  on  for  a  rod  or  two,  so  sure  was 
he  that  when  he  turned  he  should  see  the  face  of 
which  he  had  been  in  search.  He  was  not  mis 
taken.  There  she  sat,  —  the  strange,  vivid,  yellow- 
haired,  blue-eyed  stranger, — alone  in  a  chair  on  a 
raised  platform ;  the  platform  was  full  of  camp 
chairs  of  all  sorts  which  had  been  brought  there  by 
an  enterprising  Middleburg  tradesman,  to  sell  to 
the  camp-meeting  pilgrims.  The  tradesman  had 
gone  away  for  the  afternoon  and  left  the  business 
in  the  charge  of  his  wife,  a  brisk,  bustling,  dapper 
little  body  with  a  voice  like  a  jew's-harp,  and  eyes 
whose  sharp  shrewdness  was  saved  from  being  dis 
agreeable  only  by  their  kindly  twinkle,  and  lines  of 
good-natured  wrinkles  at  their  outer  corners.  She 
was  holding  forth  to  two  friends  volubly  and  loudly 
on  the  subject  of  her  grievances  in  the  matter  of 
the  chairs. 

"  Folks  seems  to  think  we  Ve  brought  'em  over 
here  just  for  them  to  set  in,"  said  she.  "  I  Ve  tried 
every  way  I  could  think  of  ;  we  turned  'em  bottom 
side  up  some  days,  but  the  chairs  don't  show  so 


84  FARMER   BASSETT'S  ROMANCE. 

well  that  way,  an'  it  don't  make  much  difference  • 
they  turn  'em  right  orer  an'  flop  down,  and  there 
they  sit   's  long   's    they  please,    'n'  when    I    say, 
'These  chairs  is  for  sale,'  they  say,  'Oh,  I  don't 
want  to  buy,  I  only  want  to  rest  a  while,'  V  I  dc 
declare   I  'in  so  mad  sometimes  I  tell  Eben  he  'd 
better  take  the  chairs  home  before  they  're  all  worn 
out.     There  's    some    on   'em  now  that  looks  just 
like  second-hand.     I  fixed   some  folks   yesterday, 
though,"    and    she   gave    a   hearty   peal    of   unre 
strained  laughter  at  the  thought :  "  they  come  along, 
a  whole  party  —  three    on   'em,    a  man   and    two 
women,   'n'  down    they  sot  without  so  much  's  a 
word ;  'n'  I  steps  forward  'n'  sez  I,  '  We  charge  for 
these  chairs  bein'  sot  in,  a  cent  a  minnit ! '  You  'd 
better  believe  they  jumped  up  's  quick  's  if   the 
chairs  had  been  red  hot,  and  one  o'  the  wimmin 
she  said,  <  Well,  I  never ! '  'n'  sez  I,  <  Well  I  never, 
nuther,'  'n'  I  laughed  an'  I  laughed  till  I  thought  I 
should  ha'  died  to  see  'em  goin'  off  's  mad  's  if  the 
chairs  had  been  theirn  'n'  not  mine." 

John  watched  Fanny  Lane's  face  during  the  whole 
of  this  long  speech,  which  she  could  not  have  failed 
to  hear.  He  had  come  slowly  nearer  and  nearer 
until  he  stood  within  a  few  feet  of  her  chair,  but  so 
much  behind  her  that  she  could  not  see  his  face  un 
less  she  turned  her  head.  Various  shades  of  amuse 
ment  and  sympathy  flitted  over  her  expressive  face 
as  she  listened  to  good  Mrs.  Cross's  troubles  ;  but 
*he  was  evidently  now  absorbed  in  watching  the 


FARMER  BASSE TT'S  ROMANCE.  85 

'aces  of  all  who  passed  by.  She  scanned  each  one 
intently,  closely,  as  if  she  were  looking  for  a  face 
she  knew;  her  face  wore  the  same  expression  of 
mingled  perplexity  and  disapprobation  which  it 
had  worn  during  the  sermon.  The  longer  John 
looked  at  her,  the  surer  he  felt  that  he  under 
stood  the  mental  processes  through  which  she  was 
going. 

"  She  's  righting  this  thing  out  for  herself,  just  as 
I  did  ten  years  ago,"  he  thought.  "She  can't 
swallow  it  all  down,  and  yet  it  bothers  her  to  let  it 
go.  She  '11  come  out  all  right,  though,  —  no  fear 
about  a  woman  with  such  eyes  in  her  head  as  those." 
It  was  half  an  hour  before  Miss  Lane's  friends 
returned.  They  came  up  laughing  and  chattering, 
and  gathering  around  her,  exclaimed  :  — 

"  Oh,  Fanny !  it  was  too  bad  to  leave  you  so 
long.  We  got  off  farther  in  the  woods  than  we 
meant  to.  Have  you  been  awfully  bored,  dear, 
waiting  ? " 

"  Bored  !  "  exclaimed  Fanny  Lane.  "  I  was 
never  farther  from  it  in  my  life.  This  is  one  of  the 
most  interesting  sights  I  ever  saw.  I  can't  in  the 
least  make  it  out." 

"  Make  it  out  !  What  do  you  mean,  Miss 
Lane  ?  "  cried  young  Herbert  Wheelwright".  "  Does 
it  strike  you  as  a  conundrum  ?  I  think  it  is  a  con 
founded  bore  myself,  except  for  having  you  girls 
to  take  care  of." 

"  Be    quiet,    Herbert,"    interrupted   his   sister ; 


86  FARMER  B ASSETS S  ROMANCE. 

"  don't  be  so  rude  to  Fanny  ;  you  don't  understand 
her." 

Herbert  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  walked  to 
the  side  of  another  young  girl  in  the  party  who  was 
not  likely  to  oppress  him  with  any  psychological 
perplexities.  As  the  group  moved  on,  Fanny  Lane 
turned  back,  and  holding  out  a  piece  of  silver  to 
the  proprietress  of  the  chairs,  said  in  the  same  low 
vibrant  voice  which  had  so  stirred  John  Bassett's 
nerves  at  his  first  hearing  of  it,  — 

"  You  must  let  me  pay  you  for  the  use  of  your 
chair.  You  were  quite  right  in  saying  that  it  ought 
to  be  paid  for." 

The  woman  stretched  out  her  hand  to  take  the 
money,  but  her  husband,  who  had  returned  and 
stood  by  her  side,  pushed  down  her  hand  impa 
tiently,  and  exclaimed :  — 

"  No,  no,  Miss.  We  'd  be  happy  to  have  you  set 
here  's  long  's  you  like.  You  ain't  the  kind  we 
meant." 

Fanny  smiled,  but  still  held  out  the  money. 

"  I  'm  very  heavy,"  she  said  roguishly,  "  and 
should  hurt  the  chair  quite  as  much  as  anybody. 
Please  take  the  money  and  buy  something  for  your 
pretty  little  boy,"  and  she  pointed  to  a  bright-eyed 
chubby  fellow,  some  four  or  five  years  old,  who 
was  clinging  to  his  mother's  skirts,  half  in  and  half 
out  of  the  folds,  after  the  manner  of  shy  country 
children.  Thus  conciliated  on  the  side  of  his 
paternal  affection,  the  man  took  the  money,  saying 


FARMER  BASSE  TT^S  ROMANCE.  8? 

with   a  clumsy  but  well-meant  attempt  at  respect 
fulness  :  — 

"  Much  obliged  to  you,  Miss,  much  obliged  to 
you,  I  'm  sure,  if  it  's  a  present  to  Sammy.  Thank 
the  lady,  Sammy." 

But  Sammy  only  burrowed  the  deeper  in  his 
mother's  skirts,  and  evinced  no  gratitude  whatever ; 
as,  indeed,  why  should  he,  since  the  chances  were 
so  small  that  he  could  have  any  hand  in  the  spend 
ing  of  that  half  dollar  ! 

As  Miss  Lane  and  her  friends  walked  away, 
John  Bassett  turned  suddenly  in  the  opposite  direc 
tion,  and  plunged  into  the  woods.  He  was  conscious 
of  a  sudden  unwillingness  to  see  this  girl  put  off 
the  face  she  wore  when  she  was  thinking,  and 
alone,  and  put  on  the  face  she  wore  when  she  was 
talking.  Already  he  had  perceived  that  she  was 
like  a  chameleon  in  her  change  of  expression; 
and  of  the  expressions  he  had  thus  far  seen,  the 
only  one  which  did  not  jar  and  perplex  him  was  the 
one  she  wore  when  she  was  silent  and  undisturbed 
by  antagonistic  or  interrupting  magnetisms.  He 
roamed  on  till  he  reached  the  outer  edge  of  the 
wood,  where  all  was  as  still  and  peaceful  as  if  it 
were  a  wilderness.  Here  he  threw  himself  on  the 
ground,  and  surrendered  himself  to  his  reveries, 
He  was  not  much  given  to  analyzing-  his  own  emo 
tions ;  he  had  always  been  too  healthy  and  too 
busy,  and,  moreover,  had  had  very  few  emotions. 
He  was  affectionate  and  loyal  in  the  relations  in 


88  FARMER  B AS  SETT'S  ROMANCE. 

which  he  had  found  himself  placed ;  but  beyond 
one  or  two  strong  friendships  for  men  who  had  been 
his  playmates  at  school,  he  had  not  added  to  his 
list  of  affections  since  he  was  a  little  boy.  He  had 
never  been  in  love,  though  he  had  often  thought 
very  sensibly  about  being  married,  and  had  done 
his  share  of  taking  the  Deerway  girls  on  sleigh- 
rides,  and  home  from  singing-schools  in  the  winter  \ 
but  he  did  it  partly  as  one  of  the  duties  of  a  good 
citizen  of  the  town,  and  partly  from  a  quiet  sort  of 
good-fellowship,  which  would  have  walked  or  rid 
den  almost  as  contentedly  with  a  young  man  as 
with  a  young  woman,  if  so  the  customs  of  young 
people  had  decreed.  He  was  not  without  his  pref 
erences  among  the  Deerway  young  women,  but  he 
had  also  his  preferences  among  the  Deerway  young 
men ;  and  he  could  have  given  as  clear  and  satis 
factory  reasons  for  them  in  the  one  case  as  in  the 
other,  unless,  perhaps,  in  the  case  of  a  little  girl 
named  Molly  Wilder,  whose  mother  was  a  widow, 
and  took  summer  boarders  in  Deerway.  They  were 
very  poor,  and  had  lived  on  one  of  the  Eassett 
farms  ever  since  John  could  remember ;  and  one  of 
the  earliest  things  he  recollected  was  hearing  his 
father  say  to  his  mother,  — 

<b  Well,  Sam  Wilder  '11  never  earn  his  salt  in  this 
world,  but  I  sha'n't  turn  him  out  o'  that  farm  's 
long  's  Molly  lives.  She  's  no  kind  of  a  woman  to 
oe  left  without  a  house  over  her  head." 

At  last  Sam  Wilder  died  of  a  disease  so  linger 


FARMER   BASSE  TT'S  ROMANCE  89 

ing  and  vacillating  in  its  nature,  that  one  of  his 
neighbors  was  heard  to  say  one  day :  — 

"  It  don't  seem  's  if  Sam  Wilder  could  even  die 
like  other  folks.  He  's  just  a  shilly-shallyin'  along 
with  that,  's  he  has  with  everything  else  he  Js  ever 
undertook," 

The  day  after  the  funeral  poor  Mrs.  Wilder  sent 
for  her  landlord,  and  told  him  the  simple  truth, 
that  she  had  not  a  cent  of  money  in  the  world, 
and  no  property  except  the  little  stock  which  they 
had  put  in  the  farm. 

"Never  you  mind,"  said  John  Bassett's  father; 
"  you  shall  stay  on  this  farm  's  long  's  you  like. 
I  '11  take  the  hay  off  the  meadow  land,  and  we  '11 
call  that  the  rent.  If  you  can  manage  to  make  a 
living  for  you  and  the  girl  somehow,  you  're  wel 
come  to  the  house  and  the  rest  of  the  farm." 

Ezekiel  Bassett  could  well  afford  this,  for  the 
"Bassett  farms,"  as  they  were  called,  were  many 
and  large,  and  comprised  the  greater  portion  of 
the  best  lands  in  Wenshire  County.  Nevertheless, 
it  was  a  very  generous  thing  for  Ezekiel  Bassett  to 
do  ;  and  from  that  day  the  Wilders  seemed  to  be  a 
sort  of  outlying  colony  of  the  Bassett  house.  All 
the  odds  and  ends  of  clothes  and  of  food,  which 
the  Bassetts  could  spare  and  the  Wilders  could 
use,  found  their  way  to  the  little  gray  house  down 
in  the  meadows ;  by  the  time  John  Bassett  was  ten 
years  old,  it  seemed  to  him  as  natural  to  take  blue 
berries  to  Mrs.  Wilder  as  to  his  mother ;  he  knew 


gO  FARMER   BASSETT'S  ROMANCE. 

no  distinction  in  the  rights  of  the  houses.  And 
when  little  Molly  was  old  enough  to  go  to  school, 
John  led  her  in  summer  and  drew  her  on  his  sled 
in  winter,  as  if  she  had  been  his  sister.  Nothing 
else  —  nothing  less  would  have  seemed  possible. 
When  he  was  twenty  and  Molly  was  fifteen,  occa 
sions  were  less  frequent  for  him  to  take  care  of  her, 
for  she  was  hard  at  work  all  day  at  her  home,  and 
he  was  hard  at  work  all  day  at  his,  but  he  never 
lost  the  sense  of  responsibility  for  her ;  and  if  no 
body  else  took  her  to  the  quilting,  or  the  sleigh- 
ride,  or  the  singing-school,  he  did.  If  he  found 
that  some  one  else  was  intending  to  ask  her,  he 
was  content;  so  that  Molly  had  the  good  time,  he 
was  satisfied.  She  never  became  a  burden  to  him, 
for  no  girl  in  all  Deerway  had  a  sweeter  face  or 
more  winning  ways,  or  more  admirers  among  the 
young  farmers  of  the  region.  But  all  that  John 
Bassett  had  ever  yet  thought  about  Molly,  as  in 
distinction  from  the  other  young  girls  he  knew  was, 
that  somehow  he  always  had  a  better  time  when 
he  took  her  than  when  he  took  anybody  else.  He 
thought  it  was  because  he  was  so  used  to  her. 
What  Molly  thought  is  neither  here  nor  there  in 
this  story  as  yet. 

Every  summer  Mrs.  Wilder's  little  house  was 
filled  with  summer  boarders  ;  and  a  hard  time  she 
and  Molly  had  of  it  from  June  till  October.  Not 
the  least  hard  part  of  it  to  Molly  was  that  for  all 
these  months  John  hardly  came  near  her.  John 


FARMER  BASSETT^S  ROMANCE.  91 

disliked  the  very  sight  of  a  "summer  boarder." 
He  disliked  their  clothes,  their  ways,  their  general 
bearing.  He  disliked  the  annual  invasion  of  the 
quiet  of  the  town ;  the  assumption  which  so  many 
of  them  showed  only  too  plainly,  that  they  felt  that 
the  Deerway  farms  and  farmers  were  created 
chiefly  for  the  purpose  of  making  summer  comfort 
able  to  city  people  who  must  leave  home.  So  John 
never  crossed  the  threshold  of  Mrs.  Wilder's  house, 
if  he  could  help  it,  while  there  was  a  single,  sum 
mer  boarder  left ;  and  this  had  been  the  source  of 
many  a  half  quarrel  between  him  and  Molly,  who, 
gentle  as  she  was,  could  not  help  resenting  and 
misinterpreting  his  absence. 

And  here  was  John  Bassett,  at  the  Middleburg 
camp-meeting,  absolutely  spending  a  whole  after 
noon  and  evening  in  watching  a  "summer  boarder," 
following  her  about,  looking  at  her  face  and  study 
ing  it,  as  he  never  studied  a  woman's  face  before  1 
"  All  for  the  want  of  a  horse-shoe  nail." 

John's  reverie  did  not  last  long.  It  passed  by 
quick  and  easy  stages  into  a  sound  sleep.  When 
he  waked  it  was  almost  dark.  He  sprang  to  his 
feet  in  bewildered  wonder,  but  soon  recalled  the 
vhole  situation  of  his  affairs.  Sentiment  and  ex 
citement  had  yielded  in  him,  by  this  time,  to  fatigue 
and  heat  and  hunger ;  and  it  must  be  acknowledged 
that  as  he  walked  briskly  back  toward  the  centre 
of  the  grove,  his  thoughts  of  himself  and  his  be 
havior  were  not  complimentary.  He  was  as  nearly 


92  FARMER  B ASSETS S  ROMANCE. 

surly  as  it  was  in  his  nature  to  be ;  and  by  a  cunous 
sort  of  moral  metonymy  all  his  impatience  centred 
on  the  thought  of  Hi  Peet.  So  when  he  found  him 
self  face  to  face  with  Hi,  in  one  of  the  restaurant 
tents,  he  spoke  to  him  with  a  gruff  displeasure, 
which  was,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  uncalled  for,  an  1 
made  Hi  laugh  heartily. 

"  Why,  man  alive,"  he  said,  "  you  did  n't  suppose 
I  was  bound  to  stay  to  hum  year  in  and  year  out, 
on  the  chance  of  a  man's  wantin'  his  horse  shod, 
did  you  ?  Tain't  more  'n  once  a  week  or  so  that  I 
git  a  job  o'  shoein',  anyhow.  'T  was  jest  your  luck, 
you  see,  a-comin'  to-day." 

"Well,  you're  the  second  man  that's  said  that 
very  thing  to  me,"  replied  John,  "  so  I  suppose  it 
must  be  true."  And  as  he  was  by  this  time  much 
rested,  and  no  longer  hungry,  agreeable  reminis 
cences  of  the  scarlet  feather  floated  at  once  into 
his  mind,  and  arrested  on  his  very  lips  the  last 
clause  of  his  reply,  which  was  about  to  be  as  before, 
"  But  you  see  I  don't  believe  in  any  su^h  thing  as 
luck." 

The  people  were  already  crowding  into  the  seats 
in  front  of  the  platform.  The  elders  and  the 
preachers  sat  with  their  hands  over  their  eyes,  en 
gaged  in  silent  prayer.  This  was  the  last  night  of 
the  camp-meeting,  and  most  earnestly  did  they  long 
for  some  especial  signs  and  tokens  of  the  Lord's 
presence  before  they  should  separate. 

Again  John  walked  slowly  around  tf.e  circle,  scan- 


FARMER   BASSETT'S  ROMANCE.  93 

ning  each  seat  attentively  in  search  of  Fanny  Lane. 
This  time  he  was  more  successful ;  in  a  very  few 
moments  he  found  her.  She  and  her  friends  were 
sitting  where  Hi  Peet  had  been  in  the  afternoon, 
only  five  seats  back  from  the  pulpit,  and  near  the 
central  aisle.  Fanny  herself  sat  in  the  outside 
seat,  with  her  face  turned  away  from  the  platform, 
and  her  eyes  bent  earnestly  down  the  long  vistas 
of  twinkling  lights  between  the  trees.  It  was  a 
beautiful  and  impressive  spectacle.  Lanterns  were 
hung  upon  many  of  the  trees,  and  their  light 
brought  out  the  foliage  above  them  in  a  marvelous 
gold  and  black  tracery  ;  in  every  direction  long 
shadowy  aisles  seemed  to  stretch  away,  with  alter 
nating  intervals  of  gloom  and  radiance ;  and  over 
head  was  a  clear,  dark  sky  blazing  with  stars.  No 
wonder  that  in  such  a  scene  as  this  hearts  are 
newly  wrought  upon  by  memories  and  appeals. 

The  sermon  was  not  a  long  one.  At  its  close, 
the  usual  invitation  was  given  to  all  those  who 
wished  the  prayers  of  the  congregation  to  come 
forward  into  the  seats  reserved  for  them.  Many 
went  forward.  Then  rose  the  sweet  wild  hymn,  — 

"  Come  to  Jesus  !  Come  to  Jesus  ! 
Come  to  Jesus  just  now." 

The  tender  plaintive  cadences  seemed  to  float  up 
among  the  trees,  and  to  be  prolonged  there,  in  the 
upper  air,  as  if  the  echoes  were  entangled  in  the 
leaves;  then  came  prayers,  —  earnest,  wrestling 


94  FARMER  B ASSETS S  ROMANCE. 

prayers  by  men  who  believed  with  their  whole 
souls  that  for  many  of  the  men  and  women  sitting 
there,  that  night  would  be  the  only  chance  of  sal 
vation.  Nothing  in  this  life  can  be  more  solemn 
than  such  a  moment  to  those  who  hold  the  Meth 
odist  belief.  Tears  flowed  down  the  cheeks  of 
strong  men.  Women  sobbed  hysterically ;  here 
and  there  could  be  seen  a  mother  pleading  with  a 
child,  a  wife  with  a  husband.  The  elders  walked 
up  and  down  in  the  aisles,  urging  and  encouraging 
the  timid  and  the  hesitating ;  every  few  moments 
the  presiding  elder  on  the  platform  would  strike  up 
a  new  strain  of  song,  —  tender,  plaintive,  and  sub 
duing  beyond  all  power  of  words.  With  each 
stanza  there  came  forward  more  and  more,  tiil  the 
seats  were  nearly  full. 

"  Bless  the  Lord,  here  is  another  soul  that 's  go 
ing  to  be  saved,"  the  ministers  would  cry,  as  each 
person  came  forward.  Heartfelt  "  Amens  "  and 
"  Glorys  "  rose  from  the  whole  congregation.  The 
cool  evening  wind  rustled  at  intervals  through  the 
trees ;  and  it  needed  no  faith  in  the  Methodist 
creed,  no  excitement  of  spiritual  ecstasy,  to  make 
one  thrill  all  through  with  the  consciousness  that 
the  leaves  rustled  as  if  invisible  hosts  were  passing 
by.  Whatever  be  one's  religious  belief,  however 
he  may  disapprove  of  all  his  class  of  abnormal  in 
fluences,  he  cannot  witness  such  a  scene  unmoved, 
unless  he  be  of  a  hard  and  scoffing  nature.  John 
Bassett  was  astonished.  He  was  too  sincere  and 


FARMER  BASSETT'S  ROMANCE.  95 

earnest  himself,  not  to  recognize  earnestness  and 
sincerity  wherever  he  saw  them.  He  had  regarded 
the  Methodist  methods  as  akin  to  the  methods  of 
mountebanks  and  jugglers.  He  felt  to-night,  in 
every  nerve  of  his  being,  that  he  had  been  wrong. 
He  was  affected  in  spite  of  himself  —  so  power 
fully  that  more  than  once  he  felt  tears  spring  in 
his  eyes. 

He  hardly  dared  look  at  Fanny  Lane,  so  intense 
was  her  expression ;  her  cheeks  were  flushed,  her 
lips  were  parted ;  she  bent  forward  unconsciously 
and  looked  up  into  the  face  of  each  person  who 
passed  her  to  take  a  seat  among  those  who  were 
"anxious."  Whenever  the  singing  broke  forth,  her 
lips  trembled,  and  she  fixed  her  eyes  on  the  ground. 
John  had  taken  his  seat  just  opposite  her — only 
the  narrow,  grassy  aisle  separated  them.  He  could 
have  reached  her  with  his  hand ;  and  he  felt  again 
and  again  an  impulse  to  do  so,  when  he  saw  her 
excitement  increasing. 

At  last  she  rose  slowly,  and  turning  toward  her 
ft iends,  said  in  a  low  voice,  which  John  heard  dis 
tinctly  :  — 

"Don't  say  anything;  I  am  going  down  into  that 
scat  to  sit  with  those  people." 

And  before  her  mortified  and  alarmed  compan 
ions  could  utter  a  remonstrance,  Fanny  Lane  had 
glided  quietly  three  steps  forward,  and  had  seated 
herself  by  the  side  of  an  old  woman,  who  was  bent 
over  nearly  double  with  her  face  buried  in  her 
uands,  sobbing. 


96  FA  RATER  BASSE  TT'S  ROMANCE. 

John  Bassett  felt  a  strange,  irrational  rage  at  this 
sight,  then  a  still  stranger  and  more  irrational  de 
sire  to  go  and  sit  by  her  side.  He  gazed  at  her 
with  a  sort  of  terror,  wondering  what  she  would  do 
next.  He  had  not  long  to  wonder.  One  of  the 
elders  approached  her,  and  began  to  put  to  her  the 
usual  questions.  She  waved  him  gently  aside,  and 
said  in  a  low,  clear  voice  :  — 

"  Thank  you,  I  am  not  in  the  least  unhappy.  I 
did  not  come  down  here  for  that.  I  thought  I 
should  like  to  have  all  these  people  praying  for  me : 
—  that  is  all." 

Solemn  as  was  the  scene,  and  profoundly  as  John 
was  feeling  at  that  moment,  he  had  to  pass  his  hand 
quickly  over  his  face  to  hide  a  smile,  at  the  sudden 
and  utter  bewilderment  of  the  discomfited  elder. 
There  was  evident,  at  first,  a  quick,  angry  suspi 
cion,  that  this  finely  clad  city  lady  had  taken  her 
seat  there  out  of  pure  irreverence  ;  but  one  look 
into  the  steadfast  blue  eyes  slew  that  suspicion ; 
and  with  a  grave  "  May  the  Lord  bless  your  soul, 
my  sister,"  the  elder  passed  on. 

When  it  was  evident  that  no  more  persons  would 
come  forward  to  be  prayed  for,  the  whole  congre 
gation  kneeled  down,  and  the  prayers  began. 
Prayer  after  prayer  —  some  quaint,  simple,  and 
Couching ;  some  incongruous  and  distasteful ;  but 
ill  earnest  and  impassioned.  Fanny  Lane  sat  still 
as  a  statue,  her  fair  head  unbowed,  her  eyes  fixed 
steadily  on  each  one  who  prayed.  So  strange,  so 


FARMER  BASSETTS  ROMANCE.  9; 

'oreign,  so   inexplicable  a  sight  was  never   before 
seen   on    a    camp-ground.     More    than    one   good 
Methodist  man  had  his  attention  diverted  and  his 
devotion  jeoparded  by  that  startling  face.     And  as 
for  the  good  Methodist  women,  there  was  but  one 
opinion  among  them  of  poor  Fanny's  conduct. 
"  Never  see  anything  so  brazen  in  my  life." 
"  I  wonder  that  Elder  Swift  didn't  put  her  out." 
"  Should  n't  wonder  ef  he  thought  she  was  crazy, 
an'  there  might  be   a  row  that  ud  break  up  the 
meeting,"  were  some  of  the  indignant  whispers  at 
Fanny's  expense. 

Before  the  prayers  ended,  John  stole  softly  away. 
He  was  uncomfortable.  He  had  a  vague  instinct 
of  flight  from  the  place,  —  of  flight  from  this  girl 
whose  atmosphere  affected  him  so  strangely.  He 
found  it  no  longer  agreeable.  His  feeling  toward 
her  was  fast  becoming  something  like  fear.  Mid 
way  down  the  aisle,  he  stopped,  turned,  took  one 
more  look  at  her,  and  met  her  eyes,  steadily,  un 
mistakably  fixed  upon  him.  With  a  sense  of  some 
thing  still  more  like  fear  in  his  heart,  he  turned 
abruptly  and  walked  on. 

When  Hi  and  Hi's  folks  reached  home,  consid 
erably  past  midnight,  they  found,  to  their  great  sur 
prise,  John  Bassett  fast  asleep  on  the  kitchen  set  • 
tee. 

Hi  shook  him  awake  by  degrees,  exclaiming    — 
"Why,  John,  how  in  airth  'd  ye  get  in  ?  " 
"Through  the  buttery  window."  laughed  John. 


98  FARMER  BASSETT'S  ROM  A  ATE. 

11 1  stood  it  over  at  your  camp-meeting  as  long  as  1 
could,  and  then  I  came  out.  If  I  'd  have  dreamed 
that  you  'd  left  a  window  open  in  all  your  house 
you  would  n't  have  caught  me  over  there  at  dl,  I 
can  tell  you." 

It  was  arranged  that  Hi  should  shoe  Jerry  as 
soon  as  it  was  light  in  the  morning.     And   John 
would  be  off  for  Deerway  by  six  o'clock,  for  there 
was  mowing  to  be  done  that  day  which  could  not 
be  put  off.     Then  John  went  to  bed,  and  as  he  set 
tled  himself  to  sleep,  he  said  :  — 
"Well,  that 's  the  end  of  that." 
But  the  end  was  not  yet. 

Two  weeks  later,  as  John  was  driving  Tom  and 
Jerry  leisurely  along  the  road  past  the  Goodenows' 
farm-house,  just  at  sunset  one  night,  he  heard  his 
name  called  loudly  from  the  piazza,  and  saw  Luke 
Goodenow  running  down  the  pathway  toward  him. 
John  felt,  rather  than  saw,  that  the  piazza  was  rilled 
with  people.  He  never  passed  the  h^use  without 
having  a  secret  conscious  wonder  whether  the  blue- 
eyed,  yellow-haired  girl  would  be  in  sight ;  but  he 
\iad  never  seen  her  since  the  night  of  the  camp- 
meeting.  Now  he  felt  sure  that  she  was  on  the 
piazza,  for  the  whole  family  had  gathered  there,  to 
look  at  the  sunset,  which  was  one  rippling  wave  of 
fiery  gold  from  the  western  horizon  nearly  to  the 
zenith.  John  did  not  turn  his  head,  but  reined  up 
his  horses  and  sat  waiting  for  Luke. 


FARMER  BASSE TT'S  ROMANCE,  99 

With  true  New  England  circumlocution  Luke 
Opened  his  communication  thus  :  — 

"  Ain't  very  busy  now,  John,  are  you  ?  " 
Taken  unawares,  John  said,  frankly  :  - — 
"No;   did    the   last    of    my   haying    yesterday. 
Why?" 

"  Well,  father  'n'  I  was  a  wonderin'  if  you 
would  n't  do  a  job  o'  drivin'  for  us.  Ef  yer  would, 
't  'ud  be  an  awful  help  to  us.  We  're  jest  about 
drove  out  o'  our  senses.  You  see  we  hain't  got 
hosses  enough  for  all  our  folks ;  ycr  can't  calkillate 
on  boarders  no  how  ;  one  year  there  won't  nobody 
want  to  ride  at  all,  'n'  yer  hosses  '11  eat  their  heads 
off ;  an  the  next  year,  ye  '11  cut  down  on  hosses,  and 
then  everybody  '11  want  to  drive  from  mornin'  till 
night,  and  not  make  a  mite  of  allowance  for  you 
nuther.  Now,  Kate,  she  's  gone  lame  ;  a  feller  here 
raced  her  up  meetin'us  hill  last  week,  and  pretty 
nigh  killed  her —  I  'd  like  to  break  his  darned  neck 
for  him  ;  an'  that  breaks  up  our  best  team  ;  and  you 
see  there  's  some  o'  our  folks  we  'd  agreed  to  take 
regular  every  afternoon,  and  they  're  just  upsot 
about  it,  an'  I  'm  afraid  they  '11  go  off  if  they  can't 
have  their  rides,  —  it 's  about  all  they  do.  I  wish 
such  folks  'd  bring  up  their  own  hosses.  Now 
could  n't  you  jest  take  'em  for  us  ?  they  won't  be 
&ere  more  'n  a  month.  They  '11  pay  ye  first  rate, 
they  're  rich,  they  don't  care  what  they  pay  for  any 
thing." 

John  laughed  out. 


IOO          FARMER   BASSE  TT^S  ROMAArCR. 

"  Why,  Luke,"  he  exclaimed,  "I  'd  do  'most  any 
thing  to  oblige  you,  but  I  can't  really  turn  hack- 
driver.  I  'm  sorry." 

Luke's  face  fell. 

"  I  don't  suppose  ye  'd  let  anybody  else  drive 
Tom  and  Jerry,  would  you  ?  Father  'd  always  go 
himself  if  ye  'd  let  us  have  'em,"  he  said  in  desper 
ation,  for  this  was  really  Luke's  last  hope. 

"You'd  better  believe  I  wouldn't,"  said  John 
Bassett,  a  little  proudly.  "  I  'm  real  sorry  for  ye, 
Luke.  Well,  summer  boarders  are  nothing  but  a 
pest  anyhow." 

"  Well,  some  on  'em  is,  an'  some  on  'em  is  n't," 
replied  the  sententious  Luke.  "  There  's  folks  in 
our  house  I  'd  jest  as  lieves  disappoint  as  not,  and 
a  little  lieveser ;  but  I  do  hate  to  disappoint  Miss 
Fanny  an'  her  ma,  the  worst  kind." 

"  Oh,  it 's  women  folks,  is  it  ?  v  said  dishonest 
John  Bassett,  with  a  bound  at  his  guilty  heart ;  "  if 
it 's  only  women  folks,  I  might  take  'em,  perhaps  ; 
but  I'll  be  hanged  if  I'll  drive  any  o'  these  city 
fellows  round." 

Luke  jumped  eagerly  at  this  suggestion. 

"No,  indeed,"  he  said;  "there  ain't  no  man  in 
the  party ;  jest  the  two  old  women  and  Miss  Fanny, 
an'  they  're  jest  the  nicest  folks  we  Ve  ever  had  in 
our  house,  I  tell  you.  Miss  Fanny,  she  's  a  smart 
one.  The  old  aunt,  she  's  some  stuck-up,  but  she  's 
no  account,  anyhow.  It 's  Miss  Fanny's  ma  that 
pays  all  the  bills.  You  jest  come  right  up  here 


FARMER  BASSETT'S  ROMANCE.          IO1 

ar.d  make  your  bargain  with  'em  now,"  urged  Luke, 
anxious  to  strike  while  the  iron  was  hot. 

*'  Bargain  !  "  shouted  John  Bassett,  with  a  look 
of  indignation  which  nearly  paralyzed  Luke.  "  I  'm 
not  going  to  make  any  bargain.  You  can  tell  'em 
that  a  friend  of  yours  is  going  to  do  it  for  you. "  I 
don't  want  any  of  their  money." 

"  But  John,"  began  Luke,  "  Father  won't  take  it" 

"Settle  it  among  you  as  you  like,"  cried  John; 
"I  sha'n't  take  any  money.  Let  me  know  when 
you  want  me  to  come,"  and  he  gave  Tom  so  sharp 
a  stroke  with  the  whip  that  Tom  reared  and  plunged 
forward  at  a  pace  that  whirled  the  wagon  out  of 
sight  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye. 

"Well,  I  swanny !  "  ejaculated  Luke  as  he  walked 
up  the  hill,  "  John  Bassett  is  a  queer  one.  I  won 
der  how  we  '11  fix  it !  " 

"  I  swanny  "  does  such  universal  duty  as  an  oath 
throughout  New  England  that  the  expression  merits 
some  attention  as  a  philological  curiosity.  No  one 
can  sojourn  among  rural  New  Englanders  for  any 
length  of  time  without  being  driven  to  speculate  as 
to  the  origin  of  the  phrase.  Could  it  have  come 
down  through  ages  of  gradual  elimination  from 
some  highly  respectable  Pagan  formula,  such  as, 
"  I  will  swear  by  any  of  the  gods,"  for  instance  ? 
This  seems  a  not  wholly  incredible  supposition,  and 
lifts  the  seeming  vulgarism  at  once  to  the  level  of  a 

condensed  classic." 

No  perplexing  considerations  of  the  question  of 


IO2          FARMER  BASSETT'S  ROMANCE. 

pay  hindered  the  elder  Goodenow  from  grasping 
gratefully  at  John  Bassett's  help  in  the  matter  of 
driving. 

"  They  can  pay  us  all  the  same,"  he  said  to  Luke; 
"  an'  ef  John  Bassett  's  such  a  fool  's  not  to  take 
the  money,  he  can  go  without  it,  that  's  all.  I 
sha'  n't  sue  him  to  make  him  take  it,  I  reckon." 

And  so  it  came  to  pass  that  on  the  next  day,  at 
three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  John  Bassett  sat  in 
his  big  strong  wagon  with  Tom  and  Jerry  shining 
like  satin,  and  prancing  in  their  harness  before  the 
Goodenow's  gate,  waiting  to  take  three  "  summer 
boarders  "  to  drive.  He  felt  uncomfortable.  He 
was  sorry  he  had  said  he  would  do  it,  but  he  would 
not  withdraw  now ;  neither  was  he  sure  that  he 
wanted  to  withdraw.  In  fact,  just  at  present,  John 
Bassett  was  not  sure  of  anything.  Minute  after 
minute  passed.  Tom  and  Jerry  pranced  more  and 
more. 

"  Look  here,  Luke,"  said  John ;  "  if  this  's  the 
way  your  folks  keep  horses  standing,  they  can't 
drive  with  me.  I  '11  take  a  turn  and  come  back,  — 
it  fidgets  Tom  so  to  stand,"  —  and  he  drove  down 
frhe  road  at  a  rapid  rate. 

"What  does  the  man  mean?"  exclaimed  Aunt 
Jane,  who  had  just  appeared  at  the  door,  and  was 
leisurely  wrapping  herself  up.  Fanny  Lane  also 
ooked  impatiently  after  the  swift-going  horses,  an  t 
exclaimed,  "  How  very  queer  !  " 

Luke  hastened  to  explain. 


FARMER  BASSETTS  ROMANCE.          1 03 

"Ye  see,  Miss  Fanny,"  he  said,  "  John  Bassett's 
horses  aint  like  ourn.  They  wont  stand  a  minute." 

"What,  aren't  these  horses  quiet?"  screamed 
Aunt  Jane.  "  I  sha'  n't  go  a  step.  Maria,  this 
man 's  brought  skittish  horses ;  we  '11  have  our 
necks  broken,  and  these  country  people  never  do 
know  anything  about  driving." 

Luke  could  not  bear  this. 

"Well,  mum,"  he  said,  "if  you  say  that  after 
you  've  driven  with  John  Bassett,  I  '11  eat  my  head. 
There  aint  no  circus  man  can  do  any  more  with 
horses  than  John  can.  His  horse  plays  hide-and- 
seek  with  him  in  the  yard,  just  like  a  boy,  — you  'd 
oughter  see  it." 

Fanny  Lane  listened  with  delight. 

"  Oh,  how  charming !  "  she  said,  with  one  of  her 
bewildering  smiles  bent  full  on  Luke.  "What 
good  luck  it  was,  Luke,  that  you  found  such  a  nice 
driver  for  us,  and  such  nice  horses  !  How  did  it 
happen  that  he  was  not  engaged  ? " 

The  truth  was  very  near  escaping  from  Luke's 
lips  in  spite  of  himself ;  he  was  so  tickled  at  the 
.dea  of  John's  being  "  engaged  "  as  a  "  driver  ;  " 
but  he  prudently  choked  both  his  laughter  and  the 
truth  together  and  answered  diplomatically :  — 

"  Oh,  he  would  n't  drive  for  everybody,  John 
wouldn't,"  —  which  was  certainly  true,  though  it 
served  Luke's  purpose  as  well  as  a  lie. 

When  Luke,  with  some  confusion  and  mixing  up 
lif  genders  and  pronouns,  had  succeeded  in  in- 


I  CM         FARMER  B  ASSETS  S  ROMANCE. 

troducing  John  Bassett  to  the  three  women  whom 
he  was  to  take  charge  of  for  the  afternoon,  Fanny 
Lane  looked  full  in  John  Bassett's  face  and 
said,  — 

"  I  have  seen  you  before,  Mr.  Bassett  —  I  saw 
you  at  the  camp-meeting.  You  went  out  in  the 
middle  of  the  last  prayer,  and  I  thought  it  was 
so  very  wrong  of  you." 

John  was  dumbfounded.  All  the  old  bewilder 
ment  of  senses  and  emotions  which  he  had  felt  at 
his  first  sight  of  this  girl,  rushed  back  upon  him 
now,  —  also  something  of  the  old  terror.  How 
could  he  be  sure  that  she  had  not  seen  him  during 
the  whole  time  he  had  spent  in  watching  her?  How 
could  he  be  sure  that  she  had  not  read  his  thoughts 
and  feelings  in  his  face  ?  How  could  he  be  sure 
that  she  was  not  at  this  very  moment  reading 
clearly  all  his  discomforts  and  perplexity  ?  Heart 
ily,  John  wished  himself  and  his  horses  safely  back 
on  the  Bassett  farm. 

But  all  that  Miss  Lane  saw  of  this  mental  per 
turbation  was  a  slight  hesitancy  and  slowness  of 
speech,  which  she  set  down  to  the  natural  shyness 
of  a  rural  man  —  unaccustomed  to  be  at  ease  with 
city  women  ;  and  she  found  something  very  quaint 
and  amusing  in  John's  concise  reply  :  — 

*  I  do  not  think  any  one  heard  me  go  out  Nc 
due  looked  up  that  I  saw." 

As  Miss  Lane's  eyes  were  probably  the  only  eyes 
31  that  whole  congregation  which  were  not  de- 


FARMER  B ASSETS S  ROMANCE.  10$ 

voutly  closed  at  the  moment  when  John  stole  away 
so  noiselessly  on  the  grass,  John  had  the  best  of 
this  little  opening  passage  at  arms,  —  how  much 
the  best  he  did  not  dream,  and  would  have  been 
astonished  if  he  had  known  that  his  companion 
was  saying  to  herself  at  that  moment :  "  How 
clever  of  him  !  Of  course  I  should  never  have 
known  that  he  had  gone  out  if  I  had  not  been 
gazing  about  at  everything,"  and  Fanny  Lane 
looked  with  a  new  interest  at  John  Bassett's  face. 
It  was  a  face  that  a  sensitive  and  timid  woman 
might  fear ;  but  one  that  a  high-spirited  and  inde 
pendent  woman  might  welcome  with  a  quick  and 
hearty  sense  of  comradeship  and  trust.  Very  calm, 
very  strong,  very  straightforward  was  the  expres 
sion  of  the  face  in  repose ;  the  eyes  were  dark 
blue-gray ;  the  eyebrows  and  lashes  jet  black ;  his 
smooth-shaved  chin  was  too  long  and  too  heavily 
molded,  and  his  lips  were  thin  rather  than  full, 
though  the  outline  of  his  mouth  when  closed  was 
rarely  fine,  and  when  he  smiled  it  was  beautiful. 
Yet,  the  face  was  on  the  whole  a  stern  one,  and 
oftener  repelled  than  won  advances  from  strangers  ; 
it  compelled  confidence,  but  did  not  invite  familiar 
ity.  The  more  Miss  Lane  looked  at  her  escort,  the 
more  she  took  satisfaction  in  his  appearance. 

"  Really,"  she  thought,  "  this  is  a  godsend  ;  such 
horses  as  these,  and  a  man  who  is  not  in  the  least 
stupid  if  he  is  a  farmer  !  We  shall  have  a  lovely 
time  or  our  drives." 


IO6         FARMER   BASSETT'S  ROMANCE. 

And  she.  settled  herself  back  in  the  broad  front 
seat  with  a  content  and  pleasurable  anticipation 
which  radiated  from  every  feature,  and  made  itself 
felt  like  sunshine. 

"Is  n't  this  lovely,  mamma ?"  she  exclaimed. 
"  What  a  lucky  thing  that  old  Kate  went  lame ! 
These  horses  are  a  thousand  times  better  that  Mr. 
Goodenow's.  In  fact,"  she  added,  "  that  's  no 
way  to  speak  of  them ;  they  would  be  superb 
horses  anywhere  ;  they  're  not  to  be  spoken  of  as 
the  same  sort  of  animal  as  Mr.' Goodenow's." 

"  No,"  said  John  quietly. 

The  tone  of  the  monosyllable  meant  so  much 
that  Fanny  Lane  exclaimed  — 

"  You  love  your  horses  very  much,  Mr.  Bassett, 
do  you  not  ?  " 

"They  are  my  only  brothers,"  replied  John, 
"  I  have  taken  care  of  them  since  the  day  they 
were  born." 

"  Oh,  how  perfectly  delightful  !  "  cried  Fanny. 
11  That  's  the  very  thing  I  have  always  thougnt  I 
should  like  to  do,  —  have  a  colt  for  my  own  in  the 
very  beginning,  when  I  could  play  with  it  as  I 
would  with  a  kitten." 

"Yes,  that  's  the  only  way  to  have  the  real  com 
fort  of  a  horse,"  said  John.  "They  are  more  in 
telligent  than  dogs,  and  much  more  loving,  if  they 
ever  had  a  chance  to  show  it.  You  ought  to  see 
Tom  play  hide-and-seek  with  me  ;  he  will  hunt  the 
vhole  place  over  and  never  give  up  till  he  finds 


FARMER  B ASSETS s  ROMANCE.       107 

me  ;  and  he  knows  just  as  quick  in  the  morning 
if  there  's  a  little  difference  in  my  tone  of  speaking 
to  him  ;  if  I  don't  happen  to  feel  quite  first-rate 
myself,  he  '11  poke  Ms  nose  into  my  hand,  and 
whinny  uneasily,  till  I  speak  in  a  chirker  voice  to 
him.  I  don't  really  need  any  reins  to  guide  them. 
See  here,"  and  John  suddenly  said  in  a  low  tone  — 
"  Whoa,  Tom !  Whoa,  Jerry  !  "  The  horses  were 
trotting  at  a  rapid  rate  down  a  little  hilL  So  sud 
denly  that  they  fell  almost  on  their  haunches,  the 
beautifully  trained  animals  came  to  a  full  stop,  and 
stood  still  with  their  necks  arched,  their  heads 
down,  snorting  a  little  in  impatience.  The  sudden 
stop  had  given  a  severe  jar  to  the  wagon,  and  un 
fortunately  had  jolted  Aunt  Jane  forward  from  her 
seat. 

"  There !  I  told  you  so,  Maria !  Let  me  get  out ! 
let  me  get  out !  We  '11  have  our  necks  broken. 
Young  man,  let  me  get  out  this  minute  ;  do  you 
hear  ? "  screamed  the  terrified  old  woman. 

"  Oh,  Aunt  Jane,"  cried  Fanny,  who  could  barely 
speak  for  laughing,  "  don't  be  absurd.  There  is 
nothing  the  matter.  Mr.  Bassett  stopped  the  horses 
himself  to  show  me  how  quick  they  would  mind 
his  voice.  It 's  all  right." 

"  I  did  not  realize  that  it  would  give  the  wajron 
quite  such  a  jar,  ma'am  ; "  said  John,  gravely,  though 
he  cor-ners  of  his  mouth  quivered.  "  I  am  very 
sorry  it  frightened  you  so." 

Aunt  Jane  was  not  very  easily  appeased. 


108          FARMER  BASSETT'S  ROMANCE. 

"Don't  do  it  again.  Don't  do  it  again.  I 
nearly  went  out  into  the  middle  of  the  road,  —  a 
most  dangerous  trick  for  horses  to  have.  I  always 
am  afraid  of  country  horses,"  she  said. 

Any  alarm  in  Aunt  Jane's  mind  always  broke 
out  in  a  jerky,  monosyllabic,  incoherent,  but  quick- 
running  chatter,  like  nothing  under  heaven  except 
the  cackle  of  a  frightened  hen.  Nobody  could 
help  laughing  at  the  sounds  she  produced  ;  let  the 
danger  be  ever  so  extreme,. it  would  be  impossible 
not  to  be  amused  at  them.  Fanny  broke  into  an 
unrestrained  peal  of  laughter  in  which  John  could 
not  help  joining,  —  a  fact  which  completed  Aunt 
Jane's  discomfort,  and  reduced  her  to  a  state  of 
ill-humor  and  absolute  silence  for  the  rest  of  the 
drive. 

Mrs.  Lane  enjoyed  and  loved  fine  horses  as 
much  as  her  daughter  did,  and  it  was  with  a  really 
cordial  and  unaffected  tone,  quite  unlike  her  usual 
languid  manner,  that,  when  they  reached  home, 
she  thanked  John  Bassett  for  the  pleasure  they  had 
enjoyed. 

"  Yes,  indeed,  Mr.  Bassett,"  echoed  Fanny.  "  It 
is  the  very  nicest  thing  we  have  had  in  Deerway. 
Now,  you  wont  let  anything  keep  you  from  coming 
every  afternoon,  will  you  ?  We  shall  depend  upon 
it ;  I  want  to  explore  every  inch  of  the  whole  re 
gion  within  fifteen  miles  round.  It  is  the  loveliest 
country  I  have  ever  found  in  New  England.  Re- 
\nember,  now,  two  o'clock  exactly  !  We  wont  keep 


FARMER  BASSETT'S  ROMANCE  IOg 

you   waiting   to-morrow.     Good    afternoon  ! "    and 
she  ran  up  the  pathway  like  a  fleet  deer. 

"  Did  n't  touch  his  hat.  Don't  even  kno\v  enough 
to  touch  his  hat.  What  boors  these  country  peo 
ple  are  !  "  grumbled  Aunt  Jane,  as  she  laboriously 
toiled  up  the  piazza  steps,  lifting  her  fat  ankles 
slowly,  and  swinging  alternately  to  right  and  left, 
as  a  duck  does  when  it  waddles  up-hill. 

"Well,  why  should  he  touch  his  hat,  Aunt 
Jane? "  exclaimed  Fanny  aggressively.  "  He  is  n't 
a  coachman,  and  he  has  never  been  taught  that 
gentlemen  ought  to  lift  their  hats  to  ladies,  —  no 
body  does  in  Deerway.  If  he  had  been  born  in 
the  city  he  would  have  known  better.  It  is  n't  his 
fault." 

Aunt  Jane  was  half  way  up-stairs,  and  wheezing 
audibly,  but  she  stopped,  whirled  with  difficulty  on 
the  narrow  stair,  and  exclaimed  :  — 

"  It 's  my  opinion,  Fanny  Lane,  that  you  Ve  got 
some  notion  in  your  head  of  flirting  with  that  strap 
ping  fellow,  and  I  'm  just  going  to  put  your  mother 
on  her  guard.' 

Fanny  flushed.  "Oh,  how  could  mamma  ever 
have  had  such  a  coarse  sister  ?  "  she  thought,  but 
she  answered  merrily. 

"  I  'm  not  afraid.  Mamma  knows  much  better 
than  to  believe  anything  you  tell  her  about  me." 

And  then  Fanny  Lane  sat  herself  clown  in  a 
corner  of  the  piazza,  and  looked  off  into  the  vast 


110          FARMER  BASSETT'S  ROMANCE. 

golden  twilight  in  the  west,  and  said  to  herself 
deliberately :  — 

"  It 's  a  very  odd  thing  that  I  like  that  man's 
face  so.  I  have  never  yet  seen  a  face  I  like  so 
much.  He 's  as  strong  as  a  lion,  and  as  true. 
What  '11  he  ever  do  for  a  wife  here  in  Deerway,  I 
wonder." 

The  story  of  the  next  six  weeks  of  John  Bassett's 
life  is  as  well  told  in  one  page  as  in  hundreds  ;  yet 
its  vivid  details  of  delight  would  need  no  spinning 
out,  no  exaggeration  to  fill  the  hundreds  of  pages  ; 
and  as  for  color,  it  had  the  palette  of  the  New  Eng 
land  autumn,  and  the  light  of  love,  from  which  to 
paint  its  pictures. 

It  was  an  unusually  beautiful  autumn;  the  forests 
were  like  altar  fronts  in  old  cathedrals ;  they  glit 
tered  with  colors  which  gems  could  not  outshine. 
Heavy  September  rains  filled  the  brooks  to  over 
flowing,  and  left  the  air  cooled  for  the  October  sun 
light.  Deerway  lies  on  one  of  the  highest  plateaus 
in  New  England ;  this  plateau  is  in  places  broken 
into  myriads  of  conical  and  interlapping  hills. 
These  hills  are  thickly  wooded  with  maple,  ash, 
hickory,  oak,  chestnut,  pine,  cedar,  hemlock,  larch : 
not  a  tree  of  all  New  England's  wealth  of  trees  is 
lacking. 

For  miles  and  miles  in  all  directions  the  roads 
run  through  forests  and  by  the  sides  of  brooks  and 
itreams.  Then  when  you  come  out  on  the  inter 


FARMER  B ASSETS S  ROMANCE.  Ill 

rals  and  opens  between  these  hills  and  forests, 
there  are  magnificent  vistas  of  view  to  distant 
horizons  where  rise  the  peaks  and  ranges  of  New 
England's  highest  mountains. 

Over  these  roads,  under  these  trees,  across  these 
lifted  plains,  drove  John  Bassett  and  Fanny  Lane, 
side  by  side,  every  afternoon  for  six  weeks.  The 
two  elderly  ladies  behind,  wrapped  in  their  cloaks 
and  shawls,  and  often  half  asleep,  little  dreamed 
of  the  drama  whose  prelude  was  so  quietly  and 
fatefully  arranging  and  arraying  its  forces  on  the 
front  seat. 

Fanny  Lane  was  a  genuine  and  passionate  lover 
of  the  country.  As  soon  as  she  entered  it,  the  ar 
tificiality,  the  paltry  ambitions,  the  false  standards 
of  her  city  life,  fell  away  from  her  like  dead  husks. 
She  was  another  woman.  Had  her  whole  life  been 
passed  thus  face  to  face  with  the  nature  she  was 
born  to  love,  she  had  been  indeed  another  and  a 
nobler  person.  As  it  was,  all  that  her  few  months' 
interval  of  each  year  of  summer  and  out-door  life 
did  for  her  was  to  give  her  a  marvelous  added 
physical  health,  a  suberabundance  of  vitality,  which 
country  life  can  never  give  to  any  one  who  does 
not  love  it  with  his  whole  soul.  There  seemed 
sometimes  almost  a  mockery  in  the  carrying  back 
to  the  senseless  dissipations  and  excitements  of  a 
gay  city  winter  the  zest  and  capacity  to  endure  and 
to  enjoy,  born  of  woods  and  fields  and  sunrises 
4nd  sunsets.  But  this  was  what  Fanny  Lane  did 


112          FARMER  BASSE TT'S  ROMANCE. 

year  after  year.  It  was  like  living  two  lives  on 
two  different  planets ;  no  one  who  knew  her  only 
in  one  would  recognize  her  in  the  other, — would 
believe  the  other  possible  to  her.  How  should  John 
Bassett  dream  that  this  girl,  who  knew  every  tree, 
every  wayside  weed  by  name,  who  climbed  rocks 
with  exultant  joy  like  a  chamois,  who  came  home 
from  her  drives,  day  after  day,  with  her  arms  loaded 
with  ground  pine  and  clematis,  with  big  boughs  of 
bright  leaves,  with  lichens  and  mosses,  would  be 
transformed  one  month  later,  in  her  city  home,  to 
a  nonchalant,  conventional  woman  of  society,  en 
tirely  absorbed  in  a  routine  of  visits  and  balls  ? 

Fanny  Lane  was  also  an  artist  by  nature.  No 
spot  of  color  in  the  woods,  no  distant  shading 
of  tint  in  the  horizons,  no  picturesque  grouping 
of  work-people  in  the  fields,  no  smallest  beauty  of 
their  rude  homesteads,  escaped  her  eye  ;  she  noted 
every  one  ;  and  she  spoke  of  each  one  with  the 
overflowing  tone  of  delight  which  belongs  to  the  joy 
of  the  true  artist  nature.  How  should  John  Bas 
sett  dream  that  all  these  things  which  she  seemed 
so  to  love  and  delight  in,  she  loved  and  delighted 
in  as  a  spectacle,  as  if  they  were  painted  on  a 
canvas  !  and  that  she  would  use  the  same  tones 
and  show  the  same  joy,  a  few  weeks  later,  over 
rare  jewels  and  beautiful  raiment,  over  an  exquisite 
equipage  or  a  fine-flavored  wine  !  How  should 
John  Bassett  dream,  when  she  jumped,  lightly  from 
the  high  wagon-seat  to  the  ground,  at  one  bound 


FARMER  BASSE  TT'S  ROMANCE.          113 

without  touching  his  hand,  and  cried,  "Oh,  what 
a  lovely  drive  we  have  had ;  I  never  had  such  a 
good  time  in  my  life,  Mr.  Bassett,"  that  her  happi 
ness  was  as  purely  a  sensuous  one  as  if  she  had 
been  a  faun,  and  that  she  had  said  the  same  thing 
thousands  of  times  before  ?  Her  faculty  of  enjoy 
ment  was  simply  a  superb  gift ;  it  was  the  health 
and  mirthfulness  of  a  young  animal  added  to  the 
keen  susceptibility  and  passionless  passion  of  the 
artist  nature  :  the  overflow  of  all  this,  the  efferves 
cence  of  these  two  qualities,  gave  a  sparkling  en 
chantment  to  her  life  and  behavior,  which  was 
contagious  and  irresistible  to  all  persons  who  did 
not  pause  to  analyze  or  question  it.  John  Bassett 
neither  questioned  nor  analyzed  it.  In  the  inter 
vals  of  his  absence  from  her,  he  simply  recalled 
her.  When  he  was  with  her,  he  simply  felt  and 
heard  her. 

And  so  the  six  swift  weeks  sped  on,  and  the 
day  came  at  last  when  John  Bassett  had  to  say 
good-by  to  Fanny  Lane  at  the  little  Deerway 
railway  station,  to  which  he  had  driven  them  early 
one  crisp  October  morning.  In  the  hurry  of  check 
ing  luggage  and  bestowing  Aunt  Jane  and  her 
canary  bird  and  her  many  parcels  in  the  train, 
there  was  little  chance  for  farewell  words  ;  but  just 
at  the  last  moment,  Mrs.  Lane  said  very  cordially, 
for  she  had  come  to  have  an  honest  liking  for  the 
grave  and  manly  young  farmer  :  — 

"  Whenever  you  come  to  town,  Mr.  Bassett,  be 
8 


114         FARMER  BASSE  TT^S  ROMANCE. 

sure  and  come  and  see  us ;  "  and  she  shook  hands 
with  him  warmly. 

"  Oh,  yes,  Mr.  Bassett,  you  must  come,"  cried 
Fanny ;  "  I  shall  be  so  glad  to  see  you.  I  shall 
miss  Tom  and  Jerry  horribly.  Our  horses  are  not 
half  so  nice,  and  our  stupid  park  will  be  so  dull 
after  the  Deerway  woods.  Oh,  dear  me  !  I  wish  I 
could  stay  here  all  winter.  Good-by !  Now,  be 
sure  and  come  and  see  us  if  you  are  in  town," 
and  the  cars  whirled  away,  bearing  Fanny  Lane 
out  of  John  Bassett's  sight. 

He  jumped  into  his  wagon  as  if  he  were  in  great 
haste,  and  drove  away  at  a  furious  rate.  As  soon 
as  he  was  out  of  sight,  he  said  to  Tom  and  Jerry : 
"Walk,  boys,"  flinging  the  reins  loose  on  their 
necks,  and  never  once  roused  from  his  reverie  of 
thought  and  emotion  till  the  whole  six  miles  had 
passed,  and  the  horses  turned  of  their  own  accord 
into  the  farm-house  gate.  Then  he  started,  and 
exclaimed  :  — 

"  Bless  me  !  I  meant  to  have  stopped  at  Molly's, 
but  it  is  too  late  now." 

Little  Molly  had  been  looking  out  for  John  all 
the  morning.  It  so  chanced  that  their  last  boarders 
had  gone  to  the  station  that  morning,  and  Molly 
had  seen  John  drive  by  with  the  Lane  party,  and 
had  perceived,  much  to  her  joy,  that  they  were  also 
going  to  the  train. 

"Oh,  I  'm  so  glad  !  "  said  Molly.  "  It 's  all  done 
with  for  this  year.  Now  we  can  have  peace  and 
tomfort  again." 


FARMER  BASSETT'S  ROMANCE.          115 

How  many  times  John  had  come  laughing  within 
a  few  hours  after  the  last  boarders  had  taken  leave, 
and  exclaimed  as  he  opened  the  door  :  — 

"  Thank  heaven,  the  last  summer  boarder  's  out 
of  the  way  !  " 

So  Molly  felt  very  sure  he  would  stop  now  on  his 
way  back  from  the  station  ;  and  surprised  enough 
she  was,  to  be  sure,  when  she  saw  him  drive  past 
the  house,  —  Tom  and  Jerry  walking  as  lazily  as 
if  they  were  in  the  pasture,  and  John  sitting  with  his 
hands  on  his  knees  and  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  dasher. 

"  Why,  what  a  brown  study  John  's  in  !  "  ex 
claimed  Molly.  "  I  wonder  what  he  's  thinking 
about." 

And  this  was  all  she  thought,  for  Molly  was  a 
sweet,  gentle,  unsuspicious  little  girl ;  and  besides, 
did  not  she  know  John  Bassett  through  and  through 
—  almost  as  well  as  if  they  had  been  rocked  in  the 
same  cradle  ?  If  anybody  had  suggested  to  Molly 
that  John  might  be  in  love  with  one  of  the  "  sum 
mer  boarders,"  she  would  have  laughed  merrily  j 
she  knew  better  than  anybody  else  how  he  hated 
the  very  sight  of  all  those  city  people ;  and  she 
had  often  thought  in  the  past  few  weeks  how  good 
it  was  of  John  to  take  those  three  women  to  drive 
every  day,  —  "just  to  help  the  Goodenows." 

Poor  little  Molly!  It  was  some  weeks  after 
Fanny  Lane's  departure  before  the  thought  of  ask 
ing  her  to  be  his  wife  took  actual  shape  of  purpose 
in  John  Bassett's  mind.  He  was  almost  benumbed, 


U6         FARMER  BASSETT'S  ROMANCE. 

be  missed  her  so  ;  and  he  spent  whole  days  driving 
vaguely  round  and  round  in  the  roads  where  he  had 
driven  with  her ;  he  knew  well  enough  what  all  this 
misery  meant,  but  while  it  was  at  its  first  height,  he 
could  not  even  grasp  at  any  ray  of  comfort  or  hope. 
He  loved  this  woman  with  the  whole  intensity  oJ 
his  reticent  and  long-restrained  nature,  though  his 
common  sense  told  him  (when  he  let  it  lift  up  its 
voice  at  all)  that  it  would  be  folly  for  him  to  think 
of  her  as  his  wife,  —  folly  on  all  accounts :  her 
utter  unfitness  for  a  farmer's  wife  ;  the  utter  im 
probability  of  her  loving  him.  "  Pshaw,"  he  said 
to  himself,  a  hundred  times  a  day.  "  John  Bassett, 
you  are  a  fool !  "  Nevertheless,  day  by  day,  and 
night  by  night,  a  cruel  hope  whispered  to  him.  He 
recalled  every  word  Fanny  had  said  of  her  glad 
delight  in  the  Deerway  life. 

<l  I  'm  sure,"  he  thought,  "  no  human  being  could 
be  happier  than  she  was  here.  She  belongs  to  the 
country.  She  ;s  country  all  over.  There  is  n't  any 
of  the  city  lady  about  her.  Not  a  bit. 

"  She  said  she  wished  she  could  stay  here  all 
winter.  She  need  n't  ever  lift  her  hand  to  do  a 
stroke  of  work.  I  could  keep  two  or  three  girls  for 
her,  just  as  well  as  not ; "  and  good  John  Bassett 
thought  over,  with  true  manly  pride,  how  he  could 
give  to  his  lady-love  all  which,  in  his  simplicity  of 
heart,  he  could  conceive  of  even  a  city  lady's  re 
quiring. 

"  I  'd  build  her  any  sort  of  a  house  she  wanted, 


FARMER  BASSE  TT^S  ROMANCE. 

if  she  did  n't  want  to  live  here  with  mother.  Oi 
I  'd  take  her  anywhere  in  the  world  she  wanted  to 
go.  There 's  money  enough  ;  "  and  so  the  treach 
erous  hope  allied  itself  to  the  blinded  love,  and 
both  together  lured  John  Bassett  on  until  one  day 
in  midwinter  he  rang  the  door-bell  of  the  grand 
house  in  which  Fanny  Lane  lived  "  in  town."  He 
had  not  come  with  any  assured  hope  ;  not  at  all  ; 
toward  the  last,  his  strong,  good  sense  had  come 
to  look  on  the  step  more  as  a  desperate  remedy  for 
a  desperate  hurt,  than  as  a  probable  healing  of  the 
wound  by  the  gentle  and  blessed  healing  of  happi 
ness.  He  said  to  himself,  grimly  :  "  It 's  the  only 
way  I  '11  every  get  free  from  it.  I  Ve  got  to  know 
the  truth  once  for  all ;  and  I  'm  not  ashamed  to 
ask  her." 

Mrs.  Lane's  black  servant  man  had  never  seen 
at  Mrs.  Lane's  door  a  person  of  precisely  John 
Bassett's  bearing.  His  first  impression  was,  that 
he  was  some  sort  of  tradesman,  and  he  was  on  the 
point  of  giving  him  a  seat  in  the  hall,  when  John's 
quick  and  decisive  tone  —  "  Will  you  please  say  to 
Miss  Lane  that  Mr.  Bassett,  from  Deerway,  wishes 
to  see  her,"  caused  him  to  change  his  tactics,  and 
usher  this  unclassed  gentleman  into  the  drawing- 
room. 

On  the  very  threshold  of  this  room,  John  got  his 
first  blow.  People  who  have  been  accustomed  all 
their  lives  to  laces  and  velvets,  and  paintings  and 
ftatues  in  their  rooms,  can  form  no  conception  of 


Il8          FARMER  BASSE  TT^S  ROMANCE. 

Lhe  bewildering  impression  which  such  splendors 
produce  on  the  mind  of  simply  reared  persons,  see 
ing  them  for  the  first  time.  John's  only  experience 
of  splendor,  or  what  he  thought  splendor,  had  been 
in  theatres,  where  he  had,  a  few  times  in  his  life, 
seen  plays  put  on  the  stage  with  considerable  mag 
nificence  of  appointment.  He  would  not  have  con 
ceived  that  even  in  kings'  palaces  could  there  be 
rooms  so  adorned  as  was  this  room  in  Fanny  Lane's 
home.  The  only  thing  which  he  saw,  which  did  not 
give  him  a  sense  of  dazzling  bewilderment,  was  the 
conservatory  which  opened  from  the  farther  end  of 
the  room.  With  a  vague  instinct  of  seeking  refuge, 
he  walked  toward  it ;  but  even  here  all  seemed  un 
real  ;  the  plants  were,  to  him,  as  new  as  the  soft 
carpets  and  the  floating  draperies  of  cobweb  lace  j 
not  a  familiar  leaf  or  flower ;  only  a  great  exuber 
ant  bower  of  strange  colors  and  strange  shapes, 
and  an  overpowering  spicy  scent  wrhich  seemed,  to 
his  fresh  and  uncloyed  nerves,  almost  sickening. 
Involuntarily  he  looked  about  him  for  a  window ;  he 
wanted  fresh  air  and  a  sight  of  the  blue  sky.  Dra 
peries  and  veils  shut  out  one  and  hid  the  other ;  he 
felt  as  if  he  were  in  an  enchanted  prison,  and  it 
seemed  to  him  a  measurelessly  long  time  before  the 
black  servant  returned,  and  holding  out  to  him 
some  newspapers  said,  with  a  much  increased  re 
spectfulness  of  demeanor  :  — 

"  Miss  Fanny  says,  sir,  that  she  is  very  glad,  in 
deed,  to  see  you,  but  she  will  have  to  keep  you 


FARMER  BASSETT'S  ROMANCE.          1 19 

waiting  awhile,  for  she  is  just  dressing  for  a  din 
ner.  She  sent  down  the  morning  papers,  thinking 
you  might  like  to  look  them  over." 

Mechanically,  John  took  the  papers  and  sat  down 
in  the  simplest  chair  he  could  find,  and  as  near  to 
the  wonderful  window  draperies  as  he  dared  to  go. 
Mechanically,  he  fastened  his  eyes  on  the  printed 
words  ;  but  he  did  not  read  one.  He  was  wonder 
ing  what  would  be  the  next  scene  in  this  play. 
Fanny  Lane's  face,  as  he  had  seen  it  the  last  sum 
mer,  in  a  simple  white  chip  shade  hat  tied  loosely 
under  her  chin,  with  a  branch  of  wild  roses  floating 
down  on  her  shoulder,  seemed  dancing  in  the  air 
before  him.  Would  she  look  as  she  looked  then  ? 
He  had  sat  thus,  wondering  and  dreaming  for  a 
long  half  hour,  when  a  soft,  silken  rustle  fell  on  his 
ear,  and  a  swift,  light  step,  and  the  voice  he  knew 
so  well  said,  in  the  door-way  :  — 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Bassett,  I  'm  so  glad  to  see  you  ;  and 
you  must  forgive  me  for  keeping  you  waiting  so 
long,  but  you  see  I  am  going  to  a  stupid  dinner  at 
six  o'clock,  and  I  was  just  dressing  for  it.  But 
now  I  am  all  ready,  and  have  nothing  to  do  but 
sit  and  hear  all  about  Deerway,  and  dear  old  Tom 
and  Jerry.  I  'in  ever  so  glad  to  see  you ;  have  you 
been  well  ?  "  and  the  vision  held  out  its  hands, 
which  looked  like  Fanny  Lane's  hands,  and  recalled 
[ohn  Bassett  a  little  to  his  senses. 

This  was  what  Fanny  Lane  had  done  :  — 

When  the  servant  brought  to  her  Mr.  Bassett'a 


120         FARMER  BASSE  TT'S  ROMANCE. 

name  and  message,  she  sprang  to  her  feet,  and  ex 
claimed,  "  Why,  the  good  soul !  I  'm  so  glad  to  see 
him.  Tell  Mr.  Bassett  I  '11  be  down  in  a  moment," 
but  before  the  man  had  left  the  room,  she  ex 
claimed  :  "  Wait,  William."  Then  turning  to  her 
mother  she  said  :  — 

"  I  believe  I  'd  better  dress  before  I  go  down,  for 
it's  four  o'clock  now  ?nd  he  '11  be  just  as  likely  to 
stay  two  hours  as  one,  and  I  never  could  hurt  his 
feelings  by  telling  him- 1  had  an  engagement." 

"  Yes,  dear,  I  think  so  too,"  assented  Mrs.  Lane, 
though  she  did  not  in  the  least  think  so,  having  a 
very  distinct  impression  of  the  incongruity  between 
Fanny's  evening  toilet  and  her  Deerway  visitor. 
Then  Fanny  went  to  her  room,  saying  in  her  heart 
as  she  went :  — 

"  It  may  be  all  a  ridiculous  fancy  of  mine,  but  it 
wont  do  any  harm  ;  and  if  the  poor  fellow  has 
really  come  down  here  with  any  such  idea  in  his 
head,  nothing  would  cure  him  of  it  so  soon  as  to 
see  me  in  evening  dress.  I  know  John  Bassett  well 
enough  for  that." 

Fanny  Lane  had  never  forgotten  ;  she  had  often 
wished  she  could  forget,  —  the  look  on  John's  face 
just  as  the  train  moved  out  of  the  Deerway  station, 
the  day  she  had  bade  him  good-by.  It  smote  her 
with  a  pang,  —  not  of  remorse,  for  she  was  not  con 
scious  of  having  by  look,  word,  or  deed  done  any 
thing  to  invite  01  to  awaken  his  love,  —  but  of  bit 
ter  and  bootless  regret.  She  liked  and  esteemed 


FARMER  BASSE  TT^S  ROMANCE.          121 

John  Bassett  heartily;  more  than  that,  she  recog 
nized  in  him  the  elements  of  a  true  manliness  of 
the  sort  that  she  most  admired ;  and  she  had  more 
than  once  gone  so  far  in  her  secret  thoughts  as 
to  admit  to  herself  that  not  one  of  the  men  with 
whom  she  had  thus  far  been  brought  into  contact 
could  compare  in  point  of  fine  native  grain  and 
honesty  clear  through  to  the  core  with  this  uncul 
tured  and  unmannered  farmer.  Through  all  Fanny 
Lane's  worldliness  and  ambition  and  convention 
ality,  she  had  kept  unsullied  her  womanly  instinct 
of  reverence  for,  and  tenderness  to,  all  real  love. 
To  break,  or  to  hurt  a  heart  wantonly  was  as  impos 
sible  to  her  as  it  would  be  to  John  Bassett  himself. 
Very  sorely  she  suffered  during  the  half  hour  that 
she  spent  in  arranging  herself  to  go  down  to  meet 
this  man  whom  she  feared  she  had  wounded ;  and 
it  was  a  serious  and  pensive  face  that  looked  back 
at  her  from  the  long  pier-glass,  as  she  surveyed 
herself  at  last,  and  noting  every  point  of  the  per 
fection  of  her  attire,  thought  sadly,  — 

"  I  am  sure  if  he  has  thought  of  such  a  thing,  he 
will  see  now  he  has  made  a  great  mistake." 

Kind,  wise  Fanny  Lane  !  When  John  first 
'ooked  up,  he  literally  did  not  know  her.  The 
dazzling  white  neck  and  white  arms  were  all  he 
saw  at  first,  and  at  sight  of  those  he  felt  an  hon 
est  and  quick  displeasure.  To  his  unenlightened 
and  uncultured  sense,  they  were  unseemly.  He 
\tnew,  he  had  read,  that  this  was  the  way  of  the 


122          FARMER  BASSETT'S  ROMANCE. 

cvorld  ;  and  he  had  often  seen  actress  women  thus 
bared  to  the  eyes  of  men ;  but  even  in  the  theatre 
he  had  disliked  it :  he  was  so  simple-hearted,  so 
pure-minded,  —  this  man  of  the  fields,  —  and  now, 
nearer,  within  the  close  and  unrestrained  reach  of 
his  eyes,  he  disliked  it  more.  Yet  it  was  not  this, 
powerfully  as  this  affected  him,  which  slew  on  the 
instant  the  purpose  with  which  he  had  sought 
Fanny  Lane.  For  this  he  could  have  had  patience 
and  comprehension,  seeing  that  all  the  influences 
and  circumstances  of  her  life  made  it  inevitable. 
The  thing  which  slew  the  purpose,  almost  the  de 
sire,  within  his  heart,  was  the  thing  which  Fanny 
Lane  had  divined  beforehand  would  slay  it,  and 
had  purposely  plotted  should  slay  it ;  it  was  the 
whole  atmosphere  of  luxury,  artificial  elegance  in 
her  dress.  She  had  chosen  the  showiest  and  cost 
liest  of  her  gowns  :  a  heavy  wine-colored  silk,  with 
a  sweeping  train  trimmed  profusely  with  white  lace , 
white  chrysanthemums,  so  daintily  and  truly  made 
that  it  was  hard  to  believe  them  artificial,  looped 
the  folds  of  the  silk,  and  were  scattered  in  the  lace  \ 
white  chrysanthemums,  made  of  pearls  with  yellow 
topazes  for  their  centres,  shone  in  her  hair,  on  her 
neck  and  on  her  arms.  She  was  superbly  beautiCul 
in  this  toilet,  and  she  knew  it ;  but  she  knew  or 
believed  that  it  was  a  kind  of  beauty  which  would 
bring  healing  and  not  harm  to  the  heart  of  John 
Bassett.  It  did.  It  did  its  work  so  quickly  that  to 
her  dying  day,  Fanny  Lane  never  felt  sure  —  and 


FARMER  BASSETT'S  ROMANCE.          123 

it  was  many  years  before  she  ceased  to  wonder  — 
whether  the  healing  had  been  needed  or  not. 

"  Very  well,  thank  you,  Miss  Lane,"  said  John 
Bassett,  with  an  untroubled  and  warm-hearted  smile, 
in  reply  to  her  first  inquiry.  "  I  am  always  well. 
Have  you  been  well  ?  and  your  mother  and  aunt  ? 
You  asked  me  to  come  and  see  you,  if  I  came  to 
town,  and  so  as  I  was  here  to-day,  I  called.  Are 
you  well  ? " 

"  I  'm  very  glad  you  did,"  said  Fanny  ;  and  with 
an  uneasy  instinct  which  she  never  felt  in  a  ball 
room,  she  drew  close  up  to  her  throat  the  fleecy 
shawl  she  had  thrown  over  her  shoulders  as  she 
came  down-stairs.  Without  knowing  what  she  felt, 
she  had  felt  the  avoidance  in  John  Bassett's  eyes. 
"  Yes,  I  am  very  well." 

"  You  do  not  look  as  well  as  you  did  in  Deer- 
way,"  said  the  honest  man,  looking  at  her  more 
closely  now  that  he  could;  "you  are  not  out-of- 
doors  enough,  are  you  ?  " 

"Oh,  yes,  but  it's  a  different  out-of-doors,"  said 
Fanny.  "  It 's  only  one  degree  better  than  in 
doors  ;  but  it 's  all  we  can  have  till  summer  comes, 
and  we  can  get  back  to  Deerway." 

"  Will  you  be  in  Deerway  next  summer  again  ?  " 
asked  John. 

"  Oh,  no,  Mr.  Bassett,  nor  for  two  or  three  sum 
mers  ;  we  are  going  to  Europe  in  May,  to  stay  three 
fears !  "  exclaimed  Fanny,  with  great  animation. 
*  I  'm  so  delighted.  It  has  been  the  dream  of  my 


124         FARMER  B ASSETS S  ROMANCE. 

life.  But,  Mr.  Bassett,  do  tell  me  about  1  om  and 
Jerry ;  and  how  the  pine  woods  look  now  the  snow 
has  come.  I  wish  I  could  see  Deerway  in  the 
winter." 

Then  John  told  her  about  Tom  and  Jerry,  and 
about  the  pine-trees,  with  great  avalanches  of  snow 
on  their  lower  branches,  and  about  the  sledding, 
and  sugaring-time,  which  would  soon  come  ;  and 
before  he  knew  it,  it  was  already  dark  and  time  to 
go.  As  he  rose,  Fanny  exclaimed  :  — 

"  Oh,  let  me  give  you  some  flowers,  Mr.  Bassett ; 
come  into  the  green-house." 

Very  ruthlessly,  Fanny  Lane  cut  the  rare  flowers, 
not  even  sparing  the  tremulous  and  spiritual  or 
chids,  of  which  she  had  a  few.  Putting  the  fra 
grant  and  beautiful  mass  of  bloom  into  a  basket 
which  stood  on  the  table,  she  said,  with  a  sudden 
impulse  :  — 

"  Give  some  of  these  to  that  pretty  little  Miss 
Wilder  I  saw  in  Deerway,  the  one  that  sings  in  the 
choir.  She  lives  near  you,  does  n't  she  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes  ; "  said  John,  "  she  is  just  like  my 
sister ;  she  is  very  fond  of  flowers." 

"  She  has  one  of  the  very  sweetest  faces  I  ever 
saw,"  said  Fanny,  earnestly;  "I  never  have  for 
gotten  it." 

John  looked  a  little  astonished.  He  did  not 
Vnow  that  Molly's  face  was  sweet ;  but  he  knew 
that  she  was. 

"  Molly 's   a  very   sweet,   good   girl,"   he   said 


FARMER  BASSETT'S  ROMANCE.          12$ 

warmly;  and  oddly  enough,  those  were  the  last 
words,  except  good-byes,  which  passed  between 
John  Bassett  and  Fanny  Lane. 

After  Fanny  went  up  into  her  mother's  room, 
she  stood  for  some  minutes  at  the  window  watch 
ing  John's  tall,  broad-shouldered  figure,  as  he 
walked  away.  Then  she  sighed  and  sat  down. 

"  What 's  the  matter  now  ?  "  said  Aunt  Jane. 

"  Nothing,"  said  Fanny,  "  only  I  was  thinking 
that  country  people  are  a  great  deal  happier  than 
we  are." 

"  Pshaw !  "  said  Mrs.  Lane,  languidly,  "  I  won 
der  what  Mr.  Bassett  thought  of  your  gown.  I 
don't  suppose  he  ever  saw  a  really  handsome  silk 
gown  before." 

"  He  did  n't  appear  to  think  anything  about  it  at 
all,"  said  Fanny,  half  petulantly.  Could  it  have 
been  that,  side  by  side  with  her  good,  true  purpose 
of  saving  John  Bassett  from  speaking  words  he 
might  wish  unsaid,  she  had  had  a  petty  desire  that 
he  should,  at  least,  confess  her  more  beautiful  in 
her  silks  and  jewels  ? 

"What  could  you  expect  ?  "  sneered  Aunt  Jane. 
"  I  don't  suppose  he  'd  know  a  pearl  marguerite 
with  a  topaz  middle,  from  one  of  the  ox-eye  daisies 
on  his  farm  !  " 

"  Yes,  he  would,"  retorted  Fanny,  "  and  like  the 
ox-eye  daisy  a  great  deal  better  ;  and  that 's  where 
he  is  happier  than  we  are." 

John  Bassett  went  back  to  Deerway.     The  pur 


126         FARMER  B ASSETS S  ROMANCE, 

pose,  nay,  even  the  desire  to  ask  Fanny  Lane  to  be 
his  wife  was  slain,  as  we  have  said,  in  an  instant  by 
the  sight  and  the  sense  of  the  Fanny  Lane  whom 
he  had  never  seen,  never  known,  till  he  saw  and 
knew  her  in  her  city  splendors.  But  there  re 
mained  still  the  memory,  the  consciousness  of  the 
other  Fanny  Lane  whom  he  had  seen  and  had 
known  during  all  those  long,  sweet,  bewildering 
summer  hours.  This  memory  and  this  conscious 
ness  were  not  so  easily  slain.  They  died  hard,  and 
John  was,  for  many  months,  a  man  bereft.  If  there 
had  been  in  the  Deerway  grave-yard  a  mound 
under  which  he  had  laid  away  the  dead  body  of  a 
woman  he  had  loved,  his  sense  of  loss  would  not 
have  been  much  greater.  The  winter  was  a  long 
and  cold  and  sunless  one.  If  it  had  been  summer, 
John's  loneliness  would  have  been  far  less  ;  nature 
would  have  helped  to  cure  him  through  every  pore, 
and  every  nerve  ;  but  the  New  England  winter  is  a 
bitter  season  in  which  to  be  shut  up  alone  with  a 
grief;  it  takes  a  serene  and  ever-abiding  joy  to 
reconcile  one  to  its  imprisoning  cold.  The  months 
seemed  very  long  to  John.  They  seemed  very  long 
to  Molly  Wilder  also.  The  instinct  of  love  is  like 
the  subtle  added  sense  by  which  the  blind  know 
.he  presence  or  the  approach  of  a  person  they  can 
neither  see,  nor  hear,  nor  touch.  What  had  hap 
pened  to  John,  Molly  did  not  know,  could  not 
imagine ;  but  that  something  had  changed  him,  she 
Celt  so  keenly,  that  she  could  hardly  keep  back 


FARMER  BASSETT'S  ROMANCE.          12? 

tears  when  he  spoke  to  her.  Sometimes  she  fan 
cied  that  he  must  have  discovered  that  he  had  some 
deadly  disease  of  which  he  knew  he  would  sooner 
or  later  die  ;  but  he  said  that  he  was  well  ;  and  he 
looked  well.  Sometimes,  she  fancied  that  she  had 
in  some  unwitting  way  displeased  him  ;  and  a  hun 
dred  times  a  day,  the  gentle  girl  said,  "  I  will  ask 
John  what  I  have  clone  ;  "  but  a  shy  consciousness 
which  did  not  clothe  itself  in  words  made  it  impos 
sible  for  her  to  ask  the  question. 

Molly  was  unhappier  than  John.  Meantime,  he 
came  and  went  all  winter  in  the  old  fashion,  so  far 
as  times  and  seasons  counted,  and  never  dreamed 
that  he  was  seeming  unlike  himself  ;  never  noticed, 
either,  that  Molly  was  pale,  and  was  growing  thin, 
until  one  day  in  April,  when  all  the  young  people 
were  out  on  a  sunny  hill-side  looking  after  arbutus 
blossoms,  he  came  suddenly  upon  Molly  sitting 
alone  on  a  mossy  log,  with  a  few  violets  lying 
loosely  dropped  in  her  lap,  her  hands  crossed 
above  them,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  far  horizon,  and 
an  expression  of  patient  suffering  on  her  counte 
nance.  He  ran  toward  her. 

"  Why,  Molly,  what  is  the  matter  ?  Have  you 
hurt  yourself  ?  "  he  exclaimed. 

She  flushed  red,  and  replied  :  — 

"  Nothing.     I  am  only  tired." 

But  John  saw  that  there  had  been  tears  in  hex 
eyes,  and  with  a  sudden  lightning  flash  of  con« 
Sciousness,  his  heart  pricked  him. 


128          FARMER   BASSE  TT'S  ROMANCE. 

"Dear  little  Molly!"  he  thought.  "I  do- be 
lieve  I  Ve  been  cross  to  her  all  winter.  I  Ve  been 
thinking  about  something  else  all  the  time,  and  she 
has  n't  anybody  else  but  me. 

From  that  hour,  John's  manner  toward  Molly 
changed,  and  the  color  began  to  come  back  to 
Molly's  cheeks.  Nothing  could  be  further  from 
love-making  than  his  treatment  of  her;  and  yet 
she  was  comparatively  happy,  for  the  old  atmos 
phere  of  brotherly  fondness  and  care  had  returned, 
and  gradually,  the  old,  good  cheer  came  too. 

Molly  did  not  dream  that  anything  more  would 
follow ;  if  ever  the  thought  had  striven  to  enter 
her  pure,  maiden  heart,  that  it  would  be  a  joy  to 
be  John's  wife,  she  would  have  blushed  with  shame 
at  herself,  as  if  the  thought  were  a  sin ;  but  it  must 
have  been  hard  for  Molly  to  keep  the  thought  away 
all  through  these  clays,  when  John  was  deliberately 
permitting  himself  to  wonder  whether,  after  all, 
little  Molly  were  the  woman  who  would  bring  him 
true  peace  and  content.  He  was  very  honest  with 
himself.  He  knew  he  did  not  love  Molly  as  he 
had  loved  Fanny  Lane ;  but  he  also  knew  clearly 
that  his  love  for  Fanny  Lane  was  a  mistake,  —  was 
a  glamour  of  the  senses,  —  and  he  was  fast  coming 
to  feel,  by  Molly's  side,  a  serene  sort  of  happiness 
which  he  believed  was  a  better  and  truer  thing 
than  the  other.  There  was  not  a  trace  of  cox 
combry  in  John  Bassett's  nature.  He  did  not  once 
feel  sure  that  Molly  could  love  him  as  a  husband  , 


FARMER  BASSETT'S  ROMANCE  I2Q 

but  he  said  to  himself :  "  If  I  feel  that  I  can  make 
her  happy,  I  believe  she  is  the  woman  I  ought  to 
marry.  I  Ve  loved  her  ever  since  I  can  remember 
anything,  and  that  ought  to  be  the  best  sort  of 
love." 

And  as  the  summer  grew  fair  this  feeling  grew 
strong,  and  John  and  Molly  grew  happier  and  hap 
pier,  until  one  October  day  when  everything  except 
grapes  had  ripened,  this  too  ripened  and  fell,  and 
Molly  gathered  it.  When  John  said  to  her  :  — 

"  Molly,  do  you  think  you  could  love  me  well 
enough  to  have  me  for  your  husband  ?  "  she  looked 
up  into  his  face  and  said  only  :  — 

"Oh,  John,  do  you  think  I  should  make  you 
happy  ?  "  And  in  that  instant  something  in  the 
look  on  Molly's  face,  and  in  the  tone  of  Molly's 
voice,  smote  the  inmost  citadel  of  John's  heart 
which  had  never  before  opened,  and  never  would 
have  opened  to  any  other  or  different  touch. 

There  is  an  evil  fashion  of  speech  and  of  theory, 
that  a  man's  love  for  a  woman  lasts  better,  is 
stronger,  if  he  be  never  wholly  assured  of  hers  for 
him.  This  is  a  base  and  shallow  theory  ;  an  out 
rage  on  true  manliness  ;  it  has  grown  out  of  the 
pitiful  lack  of  true  manliness  in  some  men  ;  out  of 
the  pitiful  abundance  of  selfish  counterfeit  loves 
and  loving.  Nothing  under  heaven  can  so  touch, 
so  hold,  so  make  eternally  sure,  the  tenderness, 
the  loyalty,  the  passion  of  a  manly  man,  as  the  con- 
tciousness  in  every  hour,  in  every  act  of  life,  thai 

Q 


130         FARMER  BASSETTS  ROMANCF.. 

the  woman  he  has  chosen  for  his  wife  lives  for  him, 
and  in  him,  utterly  and  absorbingly. 

Before  snow  fell,  John  and  Molly  were  married. 
Molly  went  up  from  the  house  on  the  meadow  to 
the  house  on  the  hill  to  live,  and  that  seemed  to  be 
almost  the  only  change,  except  in  the  gladness  of 
her  heart  and  John's,  and  that  was  a  change  no 
body  knew  much  about  except  themselves.  A  little 
change  there  was  also  in  Molly's  clothes,  though 
not  the  usual  metamorphosis  which  brides  undergo. 
She  was  as  quiet  in  her  tastes  as  a  Quaker,  and 
the  only  adornment  which  she  wore  when  she  first 
went  to  church  as  John's  wife,  was  a  wreath  if 
small  white  chrysanthemums  in  her  hat.  They 
were  singularly  becoming  to  her  fair  and  rosy 
face.  It  cannot  be  denied  that  when  John  first 
saw  them,  he  started  a  little,  and  remenbered 
some  he  had  seen  a  year  before,  made  of  pearls 
and  topazes.  But  he  thought  these  much  j  rettier 
than  those ;  and  as  Fanny  Lane  had  said,  "  in  ox- 
eye  daisy  on  the  farm  "  prettier  than  either. 

We  may  not  dare  in  this  world  to  wondr.r  why 
the  sad  people  live  and  the  happy  people  dK  At 
times  one  is  so  overwhelmed  by  the  terrifyin  r  con 
sciousness  of  this  cruel  habit  of  fate,  th?t  one 
hardly  dares  rejoice  at  his  fullest,  for  fear  of  being 
slain  and  removed  from  his  joy. 

John  Bassett  and  his  dear  and  beloved  -wife, 
v  little  Molly,"  lived  together  only  one  short  "-ear. 
Then  with  his  own  hands  he  laid  her  and  \\*\i 


FARMER  BASSE  TT'S  ROMANCE.          13) 

baby  daughter,  who  had  never  breathed,  in  one 
grave  under  the  apple-trees  in  the  south  orchard, 
where  he  could  see  the  mound  from  his  chamber 
window.  Now  was  John  Bassett,  indeed,  bereft. 
The  blow  told  on  him  heavily.  It  changed  him 
month  by  month  by  a  slow  benumbing  process  into 
a  man  sadly  unlike  what  he  had  been  before.  He 
had  lived,  as  we  said,  like  a  noble  pagan.  He 
suffered  as  the  noble  pagans  used  to  suffer,  with  a 
grim  stoicism,  an  unwilling  and  resentful  surrender 
to  powers  he  was  too  feeble  to  oppose. 

Before  little  Molly  was  taken  ill,  she  had  had  a 
presentiment  that  she  would  die,  and  she  had  set 
all  her  house  in  the  most  careful  order  to  leave 
behind  her.  Her  few  little  personal  ornaments, 
her  two  or  three  bits  of  lace,  and  her  two  silk 
gowns,  —  only  two,  and  of  the  simplest  fashion,  — 
she  had  laid  away  with  bags  of  lavender  in  one  of 
the  deep  drawers  in  an  old-fashioned  chest  which 
stood  in  their  chamber.  Her  common  clothes  she 
had  packed  in  a  box,  and  had  said  to  John  one 
day :  — 

"  If  I  don't  get  well,  dear,  just  give  that  box  to 
mother ;  all  the  things  will  be  of  use  to  her ;  but 
the  things  in  the  drawer  I  'd  like  to  have  kept  for 
the  baby.  I  don't  believe  God  will  take  us  both 
away  from  you  ;  and  I  am  sure  it  will  be  a  girl,  — 
a  daughter  would  comfort  you  more  than  a  son, 
ivould  n't  it,  dear? 


132          FARMER  BASSE  TT^S  ROMANCE. 

And  so  it  came  to  pass  that  after  Molly  was 
buried,  there  was  hardly  a  trace  left  of  her  in  the 
old  Bassett  house  except  her  little  work-basket, 
which  stood  on  the  stand  by  her  bed,  and  held  a 
little  baby's  sack  of  flannel,  on  which  she  had  been 
working  that  last  day.  This  basket  John  would  not 
allow  to  be  moved.  It  hurt  him  like  a  new  sight 
of  Molly's  dead  face  whenever  he  looked  at  it,  and 
yet  he  could  not  bear  to  have  it  taken  away.  He 
would  often  turn  over  the  spools,  the  worn  and  dis 
colored  bit  of  bees-wax,  the  thimble,  the  scissors  ; 
he  would  take  up  the  little  sack,  and  look  at  it  al 
most  with  thoughts  of  hatred.  If  the  baby  had 
lived,  he  would  have  come  to  love  her  in  spite  of 
her  having  cost  her  mother's  life  ;  but  now  he  felt 
that  Molly  had  gone  childless  out  of  the  world,  he 
was  left  childless  in  it ;  this  miserable,  frustrated, 
useless  life,  that  was  never  a  life  at  all,  had  sep 
arated  him  from  Molly,  —  it  was  bitter.  One  day 
he  felt  in  one  of  the  silk  pockets  of  the  basket  a 
rustling  of  paper ;  clumsily,  and  with  difficulty,  he 
thrust  his  big  fingers  deep  down  into  the  little 
receptacle,  and  drew  out  a  crumpled  bit  of  news 
paper.  It  had  been  folded  and  refolded  so  many 
times  that  the  creases  were  worn  almost  through, 
He  opened  it  and  read  the  following  lines  :  — 


FARMER  BASSETT^S  ROMANCE.          133 


0  HEART  of  mine,  is  our  estate,  — 
Our  sweet  estate  of  joy,  —  assured  ? 
It  came  so  slow,  it  came  so  late, 
Bought  by  such  bitter  pains  endured  ; 
Dare  we  forget  those  sorrows  sore, 
And  think  that  they  will  come  no  more  ? 

With  tearful  eyes  I  scan  my  face, 
And  doubt  how  he  can  find  it  fair  ; 
Wistful,  I  watch  each  charm  and  grace 

1  see  that  other  women  wear  ; 
Of  all  the  secrets  of  love's  lore, 

I  know  but  one  to  love  him  more  ! 

I  see  each  day,  he  grows  more  wise, 
His  life  is  broader  far  than  mine  ; 
I  must  be  lacking  in  his  eyes, 
In  many  things  where  others  shine. 

0  Heart !  can  we  this  loss  restore 
To  him,  by  simply  loving  more  ? 

1  often  see  upon  his  brow, 

A  look  half  tender  and  half  stern  ; 
His  thoughts  are  far  away,  I  know  ; 
To  fathom  them,  I  vainly  yearn  ; 
But  nought  is  ours  which  went  before  ; 

0  Heart  !  we  can  but  love  him  more  ! 

1  sometimes  think  that  he  had  loved 
An  older,  deeper  love,  apart 

From  this  which  later,  feebler,  moved 
His  soul  to  mine.     O  Heart  i  O  Heart ! 
What  can  we  do  ?    This  hurteth  sore. 
Nothing,  my  Heart,  but  love  him  more  1 


134         FARMER  B 'ASSETT' 'S  ROMANCE. 

Tears  filled  John's  eyes  :  "  Oh,  what  could  have 
made  Molly  keep  that  ? "  he  said  to  himself. 
"  Dear  little  girl !  I  never  really  loved  anybody 
in  this  whole  world,  but  her,  and  I  never  will." 

The  lines  haunted  him  for  days.  He  put  the 
paper  into  the  upper  drawer  where  he  kept  his  col 
lars  and  neckties.  He  did  not  like  to  leave  it  in 
the  basket,  lest,  some  day,  it  might  be  read  by 
some  one  else.  Every  morning,  when  he  was 
dressing,  he  took  it  out  and  read  it  again,  and  it 
always  brought  the  tears  to  his  eyes.  After  awhile, 
he  read  it  less  often ;  and  after  another  while,  it 
was  gradually  pushed  farther  and  farther  back  in 
the  drawer  till,  it  being  out  of  sight  he  forgot  it  ; 
and  at  last,  some  day,  it  might  have  been  a  year,  it 
might  have  been  two  or  three,  —  nobody  will  ever 
know,  —  the  little  worn  wisp  of  paper  over  which 
sweet  Molly  Bassett  had,  in  spite  of  all  her  quiet 
happiness,  shed  some  tears,  slipped  through  a  wide 
crack  at  the  back  of  the  drawer,  and  fell  down 
into  the  drawer  beneath,  —  the  drawer  which  held 
Molly's  clothes,  fragrant  with  the  undying  lavender. 
Here  the  verses  lay  for  years,  forgotten,  and  un 
disturbed, —  forgotten,  —  for  John  Bassett  had 
become  a  grave,  silent,  steady-working,  contented 
fanner ;  —  undisturbed,  —  for  the  key  of  the  drawer 
lay  where  Molly  had  laid  it,  in  the  till  of  the  chest, 
and  John  never  saw  it  without  thinking  of  her,  and 
wondering  uneasily  what  would  be  done  with  those 
garments  when  he  should  die.  The  verses  he  hnd 


FARMER  BASSETT' S  ROMANCE.          135 

forgotten  all  about.  But  it  was  not  because  he 
had  forgotten  Molly  that  he  had  forgotten  the 
verses;  neither  was  it  because  he  had  forgotten 
Molly,  that  when  he  was,  in  the  Deerway  vernac 
ular,  "just  turned  forty,"  he  one  day  rode  over 
to  Middleburg  Crossing  and  asked  the  widow 
Thatcher  to  marry  him.  He  was  lonely ;  he  was 
uncomfortable  ;  he  had  borne  with  the  eye-service, 
the  short-comings,  the  ill-nature  of  hired  women  in 
his  house  as  long  as  he  could;  and  just  as  the 
Deerway  people  had  fairly  settled  down  inio  a  be 
lief  that  "  nothing  under  heaven  would  induce  John 
Bassett  to  marry  again,"  that  "there  was  a  man 
who  was  really  true,  from  first  to  last,  to  his  first 
love,"  they  were  electrified  one  fine  morning,  by 
finding  posted  up  on  the  brick  meeting-house 
walls,  on  the  ominous  black-board  containing  the 
announcement  of  intended  marriages,  the  names 
of  John  Bassett  and  Mrs.  Susan  Thatcher. 

Mrs.  Susan  Thatcher  was  the  most  notable 
housekeeper  in  Wenshire  County.  She  was  some 
thing  of  a  farmer,  too,  and  had  "  done  very  well 
for  a  woman,"  everybody  said,  with  'Siah's  farm 
since  his  death.  She  made  the  best  butter  and 
cheese  in  the  region  ;  dried  more  apples,  and 
pickled  more  pickles,  — sweet,  sour,  and  "mixed," 

—  than  any  two  other  women.  Her  bread  always 
took  the  premium  at  the  County  Fair ;  and  as  for 
her  "drawn-in  rugs,"  they  were  the  wonder  and 

he  admiration  of  everybody.     She  was  a  spinner, 


FARMER  BASSETT'S  ROMANCE. 

too,  and  stoutly  discountenanced  the  growing  dis 
favor  into  which  that  ancient  and  picturesque  art 
was  fast  falling.  "  You  can  always  spin  at  the  odd 
times  when  you  would  n't  do  anything  else,"  she 
said,  and  by  chests  full  of  home-made  linens  and 
woolens,  she  made  good  her  words.  With  all  this 
notable  industry  and  skill,  she  was  also  warm 
hearted  and  cheery  ;  had  a  pleasant  word  for 
everybody,  and  was  a  master  hand  at  "  bees  "  of 
all  sorts,  especially  at  "  quiltings." 

She  was  generous,  too,  and  gave  away  her 
turkeys  at  Thanksgiving,  and  her  chickens  in  July, 
with  a  cordial  liberality  not  common  in  the  country. 
She  was  generous,  moreover,  with  what  costs  more 
than  food  or  money,  sympathy  and  help  ;  she  was 
confided  in  and  leaned  on  by  everybody  ;  and  even 
if  her  words  sometimes  seemed  a  little  brusque  or 
hard,  it  always  turned  out  that,  in  their  sense  and 
substance,  they  were  right,  for  Susan  Thatcher  was 
the  incarnation  of  common  sense. 

As  soon  as  Deerway  recovered  from  its  first 
shock  of  surprise  at  the  announcement  of  John 
Bassett's  intended  marriage,  the  town  was  unan 
imous  in  its  approval. 

"The  very  best  thing  he  could  have  done," 
thsy  said ;  I  wonder  nobody  's  thought  of  it  be 
fore." 

"  He  could  n't  have  found  a  woman  in  all  the 
country  who  'd  have  gone  right  on  to  that  farm,  an 
worked  everything  's  Susan  Thatcher  wil!." 


FARMER  BASSETT'S  ROMANCE.          137 

This  was  quite  as  clear  to  John  Bassett  as  it  was 
to  any  of  his  neighbors  \  and  it  was  with  a  great 
sense  of  assured  satisfaction  and  calm  content 
ment  that  he  took  his  second  wife  home  and  in 
stalled  her  in  his  house.  He  felt  for  her  a  gieat 
esteem  and  an  honest  liking,  and  the  sort  of  calm 
affectionate  regard,  which  was  all  he  had  to  offer 
her  in  the  way  of  love,  was  all  that  Mrs.  Susan 
Thatcher  would  have  known  what  to  do  with. 
More  would  have  embarrassed  and  annoyed  her  \ 
for  she  was,  as  we  have  said,  the  incarnation  of 
common  sense. 

When  in  the  course  of  her  setting  to  rights  ah 
things  in  the  house,  she  came  upon  the  locked 
drawer  in  John's  bureau,  she  said  to  herself  :  - 

"  Here  's  some  of  Molly  Wilcler's  things,  I  ex 
pect.  I  guess  I  'd  better  let  'em  alone.  If  he 
wants  me  to  have  'em,  he  '11  say  so  when  he  gets 
ready ; "  and  she  asked  no  question  about  the 
drawer. 

The  little  work-basket,  with  all  its  contents,  now 
so  yellowed  and  dusty  with  age,  —  for  it  was  eight 
years  since  Molly  died,  —  John  had  burned  the 
night  before  he  married  Susan. 

"  I  don't  believe  little  Molly  would  like  to  have 
Susan  have  that,"  he  thought,  "and  I  don't  think 
I  want  her  to  neither,"  he  added,  with  a  deep  sigh 
and  a  yearning  recollection  of  Molly's  sweet  face, 
as  he  watched  the  crisp  straw  crackle  and  the  fine 
fiery  lines  of  the  threads  auiver  and  turn  from  red 


138          FARMER  BASSE  TT^S  ROMANCE. 

to  gray.     Then  he  recollected  the  locked  drawer 
and  said  to  himself  :  — 

"  Some  day  I  '11  give  Susan  the  key  to  that 
drawer.  I  suppose  the  things  might  as  well  be 
used  first  as  last." 

When  John  gave  his  wife  the  key,  and  told  her 
what  the  drawer  held,  she  said  in  her  clear,  reso 
lute,  kindly  tone  :  — 

"Well,  just  as  you  like,  John.  Of  course,  I 
have  n't  any  feeling  one  way  or  another  about  it  ; 
but  there  's  so  many  folks  in  need  of  clothes,  it 
seems  a  pity  to  let  anything  be  lying  by  idle." 

As  soon  as  John  had  gone  out  to  his  work,  Susan 
went  up-stairs  to  open  the  drawer.  It  mu^  be  con 
fessed  she  had  her  own  curiosity  to  look  into  it 
especially  as  John  had  said  to  her,  a  little  huskily : 

"  I  have  n't  ever  opened  the  drawer.  It 's  just 
as  Molly  put  the  things  in  before  she  was  sick." 

"  Poor  little  thing  !  "  thought  Susan,  as  she 
turned  the  key  and  slowly  drew  out  the  drawer  ; 
"  it  was  real  hard  for  her,  but  I  can't  say  I  'm 
sorry  exactly,"  and  Susan's  eyes  took  on  a  softer 
light.  She  had  found  out  that  she  loved  John 
Bassett  better  than  she  had  ever  loved  Josiah 
Thatcher.  She  shook  out  the  folds  of  the  two 
silk  gowns,  —  one  black  and  one  of  a  pale  gray. 

"  I  don't  know  as  there  's  any  reason  why  I 
should  n't  use  this  black,"  she  thought,  rolling  a 
bit  of  it  between  her  thumb  and  finger,  and  men 
tally  estimating  that  it  must  have  cost  at  least  ten- 
and-sixpence  a  yard. 


FARMER  B 'ASSETT 'S  ROMANCE.          139 

"  Black  silk 's  black  silk,  whoever  's  worn  it ; 
nobody  could  tell  one  from  another,  and  I  might 
have  the  gray  one  dyed  for  a  petticoat ;  no,  I  '11 
give  that  to  Molly's  cousin,  Sarah  Beman ;  she 
never  has  anything  pretty,  poor  soul !  John  'u'd 
never  see  it  on  her,  or  he  would  n't  know  it  if  he 
did  ;  she  'd  make  it  up  with  red,  most  likely." 

And  so  good  Susan  Bassett  went  on  through  the 
simple  wardrobe,  apportioning  it  in  her  own  mind 
as  seemed  best,  and  quietly  saying  to  herself  at 
last :  — 

"  I  guess  I  'd  better  not  say  anything  to  John 
about  it ;  he  '11  know  I  Ve  disposed  of  'em  some 
how,  and  I  reckon  he  'd  rather  not  know  where 
they  went.  It  's  only  natural  he  should  have 
some  feeling  about  the  things ;  'taint  so  very  long 
yet." 

As  she  took  out  the  last  article  from  the  drawer, 
she  saw  far  back  in  the  right-hand  corner  a  small 
folded  paper.  She  took  it  out,  opened  it,  and  see 
ing  that  it  was  poetry,  was  just  about  to  threw  it  on 
the  floor  (Susan  never  read  poetry)  ;  but  suddenly 
recollecting  the  circumstances  under  which  this 
drawer  had  been  closed,  she  felt  a  curiosity  to  see 
what  the  verses  were  which  had  been  put  away  so 
carefully  with  Molly's  best  clothes. 

If  "  The  Wife  's  Reverie  "  had  been  written  in 
Sanscrit,  it  would  have  been  but  little  more  re 
moved  from  Susan's  comprehension.  She  read  it 
slowly  with  a  look  of  increasing  contempt  on  her 
face. 


140         FARMER  BASSE  TT'S  ROMANCE. 

"Pshaw!"  she  exclaimed,  as  she  finished  the 
fast  line.  "  If  that  is  n't  just  like  Molly  Wilder  • 
she  always  was  a  silly  little  thing,"  and  Susan 
crumpled  up  the  paper,  and  tossed  it  on  the  bed. 
Then  she  put  back  the  clothes,  locked  the  drawer, 
and  put  the  key  in  her  pocket.  The  morning  was 
slipping  away  fast,  and  she  was  in  a  hurry  to  be 
about  her  work.  She  had  been  cutting  out  some 
unbleached  cotton  shirts  for  John  the  day  before, 
and  as  she  left  the  room,  she  noticed  a  few  of  the 
yellow  threads  and  bits  of  cloth  on  the  floor ;  she 
stopped  and  picked  them  up;  then  she  took  "The 
Wife's  Reverie "  from  the  bed,  and  rolling  it  and 
the  rags  together  in  a  tight  ball,  hurried  down-stairs 
to  oversee  the  churning.  At  the  foot  of  the  stairs, 
behind  the  door  which  opened  into  the  kitchen, 
hung  a  big  rag-bag  made  of  bed-tick.  It  was  so 
full  that  the  mouth  bulged  open. 

"  Dear  me,"  thought  Susan,  "  I  do  wish  that 
peddler  'd  come  round.  The  bag  's  running  over 
full ;"  and  as  she  impatiently  crammed  in  her  little 
ball  of  ravelings  and  paper,  and  her  eye  fell  again 
on  a  line  of  "  The  Wife  's  Reverie,"  she  said  to 
herself  complacently :  — 

"  It  's  the  queerest  thing,  when  a  man  marries 
again,  how  sure  he  is  to  pick  out  such  a  different 
kind  of  a  woman  from  his  first  wife.  I  suppose 
they  find  out  what  they  really  do  want." 


MY   TOURMALINE. 


I  HAD  arrived,  late  one  November  afternoon,  at 
a  wretched  little  tavern  in  a  small  village  in  Maine. 
I  was  very  unhappy.  It  was  of  no  consequence  to 
me  that  I  was  young ;  it  was  of  no  consequence  to 
me  that  I  had  superb  health.  I  was  very  unhappy. 
How  compassionately  middle  age  smiles,  looking 
back  upon  the  miseries  of  its  healthy  youth  !  How 
gladly  to-day  would  I  be  sent  away  in  disgrace 
from  college,  to  rusticate  for  six  months  in  a  coun 
try  parson's  house,  if  I  could  feel  the  warm,  strong 
blood  bound  in  my  veins,  as  it  bounded  that  night 
when  I  jumped  from  the  top  of  the  stage  to  the 
ground  under  the  ugly,  creaking  sign  of  that  vil 
lage  tavern. 

It  was  a  dismal  afternoon.  A  warm  rain  was 
slowly  filtering  down  through  the  elm-trees  with 
which  the  street  was  too  thickly  shaded.  The 
ground  was  sprinkled  with  golden-yellow  leaves, 
and  little  pools  of  muddy  water  fil'ed  eveiy  foot 
print  on  the  grass-grown  sidewalk  A  few  inert 


142  MY  TOURMALINE. 

and  dispirited  men  lounged  on  the  tavern  steps 
with  that  look  of  fossilized  idleness  which  is  pe 
culiar  to  rural  New  England.  In  other  countries, 
idlers  look  as  if  they  were  idling  because  they  liked 
it ;  or  perhaps  because  illness  or  lack  of  employ 
ment  had  forced,  them  to  idle  ;  but  the  New  Eng 
land  idler,  on  the  steps  of  his  native  tavern,  or  by 
the  stove  of  his  native  "  store,"  looks  as  if  he  had 
been  there  since  the  prehistoric  ages,  and  had  no 
more  volition  or  interest  in  his  situation  than  a 
pterodactyl  five  hundred  feet  under  ground. 

Spite  of  the  rain,  I  had  persisted  in  riding  on 
the  outside  of  the  stage.  I  took  a  perverse  pleas 
ure  in  being  wet  through,  and  chilled  to  the  mar 
row.  I  remember  I  even  thought  that  I  hoped  I 
should  take  cold  and  have  a  rheumatic  fever,  so 
that  the  President  might  see  what  had  come  of 
sending  a  fellow  down  into  Maine  to  spend  a  win 
ter.  Jim  Ordway,  my  chum,  had  been  rusticated 
with  me.  His  offense  was  simply  calling  the  Presi 
dent  an  "  inhuman  old  fool "  to  his  face,  on  hear 
ing  of  my  sentence  of  rustication.  Jim  was  a 
warm-hearted  fellow.  I  have  always  wondered  I 
c'id  not  love  him  better.  He  was  snug  and  warm 
inside  the  coach,  and  had  been  exasperating  me 
all  day  by  breaking  out  into  snatches  of  the  old 
college  songs.  For  the  last  hour  he  had  been 
.^uiet,  and  when  I  sprang  down  from  the  top  of  the 
coach,  and  called  loudly  to  him,  "  Come,  jump  out, 
old  fellow !  Here  we  are,  and  an  infernal  hoJe  it 


MY  TO  UK  MA  LINE.  143 

s  to  be  sure,  "  I  was  half  paralyzed  with  astonish 
ment  at  hearing  him  reply  in  a  whisper,  "  Be  quiet, 
Will  !  She  's  asleep."  Slowly  and  carefully  he 
came  down  the  coach  steps,  holding  in  his  arms 
a  Jimp  and  shapeless  bundle,  from  which  hung 
down  two  thin,  little  gray  legs,  with  feet  much  too 
big  for  them,  and  made  bigger  still  by  clumsy 
shoes. 

"Good  heavens,  Jim,"  I  exclaimed,  "  what  is  it  ? 
where  did  you  pick  her  up  ?  "  I  added,  for  I  saw 
tangled  yellow  curls  straggling  over  his  arm  from 
the  folds  of  the  old  plaid  shawl  in  which  the  poor 
little  thing  was  rolled. 

"  Hush,  hush  !  Look  after  him,  will  you  ? "  he 
said,  nodding  his  head  toward  a  man  who  sat  in 
the  corner  of  the  coach,  and  made  no  motion  to 
get  out.  The  driver  took  hold  of  him  roughly  and 
shook  him.  He  swayed  helplessly  to  and  fro,  but 
did  not  speak  nor  open  his  eyes  ;  horrible  fumes  of 
rum  came  from  his  wide-open  mouth.  He  was 
drunk  and  asleep.  We  carried  him  into  the  house 
as  if  he  had  been  a  log,  and  laid  him  on  a  buffalo- 
robe  on  the  floor  in  the  corner  of  the  office.  The 
loungers  turned  their  slow  dull  eyes  on  him.  One 
said  :  — 

"Drunk,  ain't  he?"  with  a  slight  emphasis  of 
surprise  on  the  verb. 

"  Wall,  yes,  I  sh'd  say  he  wus,"  replied  a  second, 
*he  least  talkative  of  the  group,  also  conveying  his 
sense  of  the  unusualness  of  the  incident  by  em 


144  MY  TOURMALINE. 

phasizing  the  final  verb  of  his  sentence  ;  and  then 
die  group  returned  to  their  vacant  contemplations. 

No  such  indifference  was  shown  in  the  parlor, 
where  Jim  had  carried  the  little  girl,  and,  leaving 
hex  on  the  grim  hair-cloth  sofa,  had  summoned  the 
landlady  to  care  for  her. 

"  The  poor  little  creatur  !  Now,  I  never  !  Ain't 
she  jes'  skin  an'  bone,"  ejaculated  the  kind-hearted 
woman,  as  she  bustled  about,  with  pillows  and 
shawls  •  "  and,  good  gracious  !  I  do  declare,  ef  her 
feet  ain't  jest  as  stun  cold  as  ef  she  wus  dead,"  she 
cried  out,  beginning  to  rub  them  so  energetically 
that  the  poor  little  waif  shrank  and  screamed,  even 
in  her  sleep,  and  presently  opened  her  eyes  —  the 
most  beautiful  and  most  terrified  eyes  I  ever  saw, 
hazel  brown,  large,  deep-set,  with  depths  of  appeal 
in  their  lightest  glance. 

"  Where  is  my  father  ? "  she  said,  beginning  to 
cry. 

"  Don't  cry,  dear.  Your  father  is  asleep  in  the 
other  room.  I  '11  take  care  of  you,"  said  Jim,  try 
ing  in  his  awkward  boy  fashion  to  stroke  her  head. 

She  looked  up  at  him  gratefully.  "  Oh,  you  're 
the  kind  gentleman  that  picked  me  up  in  the  stage," 
and  she  shut  her  eyes  contentedly  and  was  asleep 
again  in  a  moment. 

It  seemed  that  she  and  her  father  had  taken  the 
stage  some  ten  miles  back.  I  had  been  too  ab 
sorbed  in  my  own  dismal  reflections  to  notice  them, 
fbe  man  was  almost  unconscious  from  the  effect? 


MY  TOURMALINE.  145 

of  liquor  when  he  got  into  the  stage,  and  had 
placed  the  child  so  carelessly  on  the  seat,  that  at 
the  first  motion  of  the  wheels  she  had  fallen  to  the 
floor.  Jim  had  picked  her  up,  and  held  her  in  his 
lap  the  rest  of  the  way.  It  was  pathetic  to  see  how 
he  had  already  adopted  her  as  his  special  charge. 
He  was  an  impulsive  and  chivalrous  boy,  with  any 
amount  of  unmanageable  sentimentalism  in  him. 

"  I  say,  Will,"  he  exclaimed,  as  soon  as  the  land 
lady  had  left  the  room,  "  I  say  !  That  man  out 
yonder  will  kill  this  child  some  day.  He  is  a 
brute.  She  trembles  if  he  looks  at  her.  I  won 
der  if  we  could  n't  keep  her  —  hide  her  away  some 
how.  He  'd  never  know  where  he  lost  her.  He 
did  n't  know  he  lifted  her  into  the  stage.  I  'd  just 
like  to  adopt  her  for  my  sister.  I  Ve  got  plenty 
of  money  for  two,  you  know,  and  it  would  be  jolly 
having  the  little  thing  down  here  this  winter." 

"  Oh,  bother  !  "  said  I.  "  It 's  lucky  you  Ve  got 
a  guardian,  Jim  Ordway,  I  know  that  much.  You 
can't  adopt  any  girls  for  five  years  to  come  ;  that 's 
one  comfort.  Come  along ;  let 's  see  if  there  's  any 
thing  to  eat  in  this  hole.  She  '11  sleep  well  enough 
without  your  watching  her." 

But  Jim  would  not  stir.  He  sat  watching  the 
tiny,  sleeping  face,  with  an  abstracted  look,  un 
usual  to  him.  He  did  not  even  resent  my  cavalier 
treatment  of  his  project.  He  was  too  much  in 
earnest  about  it. 

"  No,   no ;   I   sha'n't   leave   her  here  alone,"  he 

10 


MY  TOURMALINE. 

Sfiid,  in  reply  to  my  reiterated  entreaties  to  him  to 
come  to  the  dining-room.  "  If  she  wakes  up  and 
finds  herself  alone,  she  will  be  frightened.  And 
you  can  see,  by  her  face,  that  she  has  cried  herself 
almost  sick  already." 

It  was  true.  There  were  deep  circles,  swollen 
and  dark,  around  the  eyes,  and  a  drawn  look  about 
the  mouth,  pitiful  to  see  on  such  a  little  face.  She 
could  not  have  been  more  than  eleven  years  old, 
but  the  grief  was  written  in  lines  such  as  might 
have  been  written  on  the  face  of  a  woman. 

On  my  way  to  the  dining-room  I  passed  through 
the  office,  and  looked  at  the  drunken  man,  still  in 
his  heavy  sleep,  lying  where  we  had  laid  him  on 
the  floor,  like  the  brute  he  was.  It  was  indeed  a 
bad  face  —  bad  originally,  and  made  more  hideous 
still  by  the  unmistakable  record  of  a  long  life  of 
vile  passions.  I  shuddered  to  think  of  that  child's 
pleading  hazel  eyes  lifted  up  in  terror  to  this  evil 
countenance,  and  I  no  longer  wondered  at  Jim's 
sudden  and  chivalrous  desire  to  rescue  the  little 
one  by  almost  any  means.  But  her  rescue  was  al 
ready  planned  and  nearer  at  hand  than  we  could 
have  dreamed.  Only  a  few  moments  after  I  had 
taken  my  seat  at  the  supper-table,  I  heard  excited 
voices  in  the  office,  the  quick  trampling  of  feet,  and 
lhen  a  pistol-shot.  I  sprang  up,  and  reached  the 
ioor  just  in  time  to  see  the  drunken  man's  body 
fall  heavily  on  the  floor,  while  the  blood  spouted 
from  a  bullet-hole  in  his  throat,  and  the  men  who 


MY  TOURMALINE.  147 

had  been  grappling  with  him  staggered  back  on  all 
sides  with  terror-stricken  faces.  In  a  second,  how 
ever,  they  gathered  round  him  again,  and  lifting 
him  up,  tried  to  stay  the  blood.  It  was  too  late  ; 
he  was  dying ;  a  few  inarticulate  gasps,  a  dim  look 
of  consciousness  and  fear  in  the  blood-shot  eyes, 
and  he  was  gone. 

Loud  and  confused  talk  filled  the  room  \  men 
crowded  in' from  the  outside  ;  pale  and  agitated,  in 
the  doorway,  stood  Jim,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  dead 
man's  face.  "  Will,"  he  whispered,  as  I  pressed 
closer  to  him,  "  I  feel  just  like  a  murderer.  Do 
you  know  that  just  before  that  pistol  went  off.  I 
was  saying  to  myself  that  I  wished  the  man  were 
dead,  and  I  believed  it  would  be  a  good  deed  to 
shoot  him  !  Oh  God,  it  is  awful !  "  and  Jim  shud 
dered  almost  hysterically.  In  the  excitement, 
everybody,  even  Jim,  forgot  the  little  girl.  Pres 
ently,  I  felt  my  coat  pulled  by  a  timid  touch.  I 
turned.  There,  to  my  horror,  stood  the  child.  Her 
brown  eyes  were  lifted  with  their  ineffable  appeal, 
not  to  my  face,  but  to  Jim,  who  stood  just  beyond 
me,  and  many  inches  taller  ;  she  had  touched  me 
only  as  the  sole  means  of  reaching  him. 

"  Kind  gentleman,"  she  began.  Before  I  could 
speak,  Jim  leaped  past  me,  caught  her  in  his  arms, 
folded  her  on  his  breast  as  if  she  had  been  a  baby, 
and  carried  her  back  into  the  parlor.  She  was 
beginning  to  cry  with  vague  terror.  Jim  was  too 
overwrought  himself  to  soothe  her. 


148  MY  TOURMALINE. 

"  Where  is  my  father,"  she  said.  "  Has  he  left 
me?" 

Jim  looked  at  me  hopelessly. 

"  Why,"  said  I,  "  does  he  often  leave  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,  sometimes,"  she  said,  in  a  matter-of- 
fact  tone,  which  was  pitiful  in  its  unconscious  rev 
elation  of  the  truth. 

"  What  do  you  do  when  he  leaves  you,  dear  ? " 
said  Jim,  tenderly  as  a  woman. 

"  A  boy  that  lived  in  the  room  under  our  room 
took  care  of  me  the  last  time.  He  was  very  good, 
but  he  was  away  all  day,"  replied  the  waif. 

"  Well,  I  'm  the  boy  that  '11  take  care  of  you,  this 
time,"  said  Jim  ;  "  if  he  leaves  you  here,  I  '11  take 
first-rate  care  of  you." 

A  queer  little  wintry  smile  stole  over  the  pinched 
face. 

"  But  you  're  not  a  boy.  You  're  a  big  gentle 
man  —  the  kindest  gentleman  I  ever  saw,"  she 
added  in  a  lower  tone,  and  nestled  her  head  on 
Jim's  neck.  "  I  like  you." 

Jim  looked  at  me  proudly,  but  with  tears  in  his 
eyes. 

"  Did  n't  I  tell  you  you  never  saw  anything  like 
it  ?  "  he  said ;  then,  turning  to  the  child,  he  looked 
very  earnestly  in  her  face,  saying,  — 

"  If  you  think  I  'm  a  kind  gentleman,  and  will 
take  good  care  of  you,  will  you  mind  me  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir,  I  will,"  she  replied,  with  the  whole 
strength  of  her  childish  little  voice  thrown  on  the 
"  will." 


MY  TOURMALINE.  149 

"  Very  well.  My  friend  and  I  want  to  go  into 
the  other  room  for  a  few  minutes.  I  want  you  to 
promise  to  lie  still  on  this  sofa  and  not  stir  till  I 
come  back.  Will  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  will,"  again  with  all  her  strength  on 
the  "  will." 

Jim  stooped  over  and  kissed  her  forehead. 

"You  know,  I  shall  come  back  in  a  few  minutes," 
he  said. 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  do  ; "  and  she  looked  up  at  Jim 
with  an  expression  of  trust  which  was  as  much  too 
old  for  the  little  face  as  were  the  lines  about  the 
mouth.  Both  were  born  of  past  suffering.  As  we 
went  towards  the  door,  the  brown  eyes  followed  us 
wistfully,  but  she  did  not  speak. 

As  soon  as  we  had  closed  the  door,  Jim  took 
both  my  hands  in  his  and  exclaimed  :  — 

"  Now,  Will,  don't  you  see,  I  Ve  got  to  take  her  ! 
It 's  a  clear  Providence  from  beginning  to  end  ;  and 
if  you  don't  help  me  through  with  it,  I  '11  cut  loose 
from  you,  and  college  may  go  to  the  devil.  I  Ve 
got  five  hundred  dollars  here  with  me,  and  that  to 
these  country  folks  is  a  fortune ;  they  '11  be  glad 
enough  to  have  me  take  her  off  their  hands." 

"But,  Jim,"  I  interrupted,  "you  talk  like  a  ciazy 
man.  You  don't  know  that  she  is  on  their  hands, 
as  you  call  it.  There  may  be  twenty  relations  here 
to  the  funeral  before  to-morrow,  for  all  you  know. 
The  man  may  have  lived  in  the  very  next  town." 

"  No,  no,  I  know  all  about  them,"  said  Jim.     "  I 


150  MY  TOURMALhVE. 

mean,"  he  added  shamefacedly,  "  I  know  they 
didn't  live  anywhere  near  here.  They're  English. 
You  might  have  known  it  by  the  sweet  tones  of  her 
poor  little  feeble  voice.  They  have  only  just  come 
from  the  ship  ;  she  told  me  so  ;  and  her  mother  is 
dead;  she  told  me  that  too." 

We  were  interrupted  by  the  appearance  of  the 
landlord,  who  came  hurrying  out  of  the  office,  his 
face  red  with  excitement,  which  was  part  horror 
and  part  a  pleasurable  sense  of  importance  in  hav 
ing  his  house  the  scene  of  the  most  startling  event 
which  had  happened  in  the  village  for  a  half  cen 
tury. 

"  Oh  !  "  he  said,  "  I  was  jest  a  lookin'  for  you  ; 
we  thought  mebbe  ye  knowed  suthin'  about  the 
miserable  critter,  as  ye  come  in  the  stage  with  him." 

"  All  I  know,"  said  Jim,  "  I  know  from  the  little 
girl.  The  man  was  nearly  dead  drunk  when  they 
got  into  the  stage.  They  are  English,  and  have 
only  just  come  to  this  country.  She  has  no  broth 
ers  and  sisters,  and  her  mother  is  dead.  He  was  a 
cruel,  inhuman  brute,  and  it  is  a  mercy  he  is  dead. 
And  I  am  going  to  take  the  little  girl.  I  am  an 
orphan  myself,  but  I  have  friends  who  wil7  care  for 
her." 

The  landlord's  light-blue  eyes  opened  wider  and 
wider  at  each  word  of  Jim's  last  sentences.  A  boy, 
eighteen,  who  proposed  to  adopt  a  little  girl  of 
eleven,  had  never  before  crossed  Caleb  Bunker'* 
path. 


MY  TOURMALINE.  151 

"  Ye  don't  say  so  !  Be  ye  —  be  ye  rich,  in  yet 
—  yer  —  own  right  ?  "  he  stammered,  curiosity  and 
surprise  centring  together  on  the  one-sided  view 
which  the  average  New  England  mind  would  natur 
ally  take  of  this  phenomenal  philanthropy.  "  I  ex 
pect  ye  be,  though,  and  uncommonly  free-handed, 
too,  or  else  ye  would  n't  think  o'  plaguin'  yerself 
with  a  child,  at  your  time  o'  life,"  and  the  inquisi 
tive  eyes  scanned  Jim's  tall  but  boyish  figure  from 
head  to  foot. 

"You're  a  professor,  I  reckon,"  he  added  in  a 
half  earnest,  half  satirical  tone. 

Jim  looked  utterly  bewildered.  He  had  never 
heard  the  phrase,  "  a  professor,"  except  at  college, 
and  was  about  to  disclaim  the  honor  in  language 
most  inexpediently  emphatic,  when  I  interposed. 

"  No ;  neither  my  friend  nor  I  have  yet  made  a 
profession  of  religion,  Mr.  Bunker.  We  have  come 
to  study  with  Parson  Allen  this  winter,  and  "  —  I 
had  a  vague  intention  of  closing  my  sentence  with 
a  diplomatic  intimation  that  we  hoped  to  be  spirit 
ually  as  well  as  intellectually  benefited  by  Parson 
Allen's  teachings  ;  but  Mr.  Bunker  interrupted  me 
in  tones  most  unflatteringly  changed. 

"  So,  ho  !  You  're  them  two  young  college  chaps, 
oe  ye  ?  We  Ve  heerd  considerable  about  ye  ;  the 
parson  was  over  a  lookin'  for  ye,  last  night." 

"Yes,  Mr.  Bunker,"  interposed  Jim  with  great 
dignity,  which,  although  it  simply  amused  me,  was 
vot  without  its  effect  on  Mr.  Bunker  :  "  we  are  the 


152  MY  TOURMALINE, 

young  college  chaps  ;  and  if  we  had  behaved  wisely 
at  college,  we  shouldn't  be  here  to-day,  as  you  evi 
dently  know.  But  we  are  going  to  study  hard  with 
the  parson,  and  go  back  all  right  in  the  spring. 
And  about  this  little  girl,  I  am  entirely  in  earnest, 
in  wishing  to  take  care  of  her.  Parson  Allen  will 
advise  me  as  to  the  best  way  of  doing  it.  In  the 
meantime,  perhaps  your  wife  will  be  so  kind  as  to 
get  some  clothes  for  her ;  the  poor  little  thing  is 
very  ragged.  Will  this  be  enough,  do  you  think, 
to  get  what  she  needs  at  present  ? "  and  Jim  quietly 
put  a  hundred  dollar  bill  in  Mr.  Bunker's  hands. 
Its  effect  was  ludicrous.  Not  very  often  had  Caleb 
Bunker  even  handled  a  hundred  dollar  bill,  and  the 
idea  of  such  a  sum  being  spent  at  once  on  the 
clothing  of  a  child  stunned  him.  He  fingered  the 
bill  helplessly  for  a  second  or  two,  saying  "  Wall 
—  wall,  reelly  —  naow  —  Mr.  —  I  beg  yer  pardon, 
sir,  —  don'no  's  I  heered  yer  name  yit." 

"  Ordway,"  interrupted  Jim.  "  My  name  is  Ord- 
way." 

"  Wall,  Mr.  Ordway,  reelly  —  reelly  —  I  '11  speak 
te  Mis'  Bunker;  "  and  the  bewildered  Caleb  disap 
peared,  totally  forgetting  in  his  astonishment  at 
Jim's  munificence,  that  the  dead  man  still  lay  un- 
cared  for  on  the  office  floor. 

"Will,"  said  Jim,  "you  go  in  there,  and  tell 
those  men  I've  taken  the  child.  I  don't  want 
them  coming  near  her.  And  if  there  's  any  trouble 
about  burying  that  brute,  I  '11  just  pay  for  it.  I  ex 


MY  TOURMALWE.  153 

pect,  by  the  way  the  man  glared  at  that  bill,  they  're 
an  awfully  poor  lot  up  here.  No,  no,  I  can 't  go 
in,"  he  exclaimed,  as  I  tried  to  persuade  him  to  go 
with  me.  "  I  don't  want  to  see  that  infernal  face 
again.  I  won't  forget  it  now  as  long  as  I  live.  I 
am  thankful  I  did  n't  kick  him  out  of  the  coach. 
I  came  near  doing  it  a  hundred  times.  You  just 
manage  it  all  for  me,  that 's  a  dear  fellow.  I  'm 
going  back  to  the  child." 

The  story  of  the  hundred  dollar  bill  had  evi 
dently  reached  the  bar-room  before  I  did.  As  I 
entered,  the  hum  of  excited  conversation  was  suc 
ceeded  by  a  sudden  and  awkward  silence,  and  I  was 
greeted  with  a  respectfulness  whose  secret  cause  I 
very  well  knew.  The  dead  body  had  been  carried 
to  an  upper  room,  and  the  arrangements  for  the  in 
quest  were  under  discussion.  There  was  no  dis 
agreement  among  the  witnesses  of  the  death.  The 
landlord  had  ordered  the  hostler  and  the  stable 
boy  to  carry  the  drunken  man  to  a  room.  On  be 
ing  lifted,  he  had  roused  from  his  sleep,  and  with  a 
frightful  volley  of  oaths  had  demanded  to  be  let 
alone.  As  they  persevered  in  the  attempt  to  lift 
him  he  had  drawn  the  revolver  from  his  pocket, 
aimed  it  at  random,  and  tried  to  fire.  In  the  scuf 
fle,  it  fell  from  his  hand,  went  off,  and  the  bullet 
had  passed  through  his  neck,  making  a  ghastly 
wound,  and  killing  him  almost  instantly. 

It  was  a  horrible  night.  Not  until  near  dawn 
did  silence  settle  down  on  the  excited  house  j 


154  MY  TOURMALINE. 

neither  Jim  nor  I  shut  our  eyes.  Jim  talked  in 
cessantly.  His  very  heart  seemed  on  fire ;  all  the 
lonely,  pent  up,  denied  brotherhood  in  his  great 
warm  nature  had  burst  forth  into  full  life  at  the 
nestling  touch  of  this  poor  little  outcast  child.  He 
was  so  lifted  by  the  intense  sentiment  to  a  plane  of 
earnestness  and  purpose,  that  he  seemed  to  me  like 
a  stranger  and  grown  man,  instead  of  Like  my  two 
years'  chum  and  a  boy  some  months  my  junior.  I 
felt  a  certain  awe  of  him,  and  of  the  strange,  new 
scenes,  which  had  so  transformed  him.  Mixed 
with  it  all,  was  a  half  defined  terror  lest  he  might 
not  be  quite  in  his  senses.  To  my  thoroughly  pro 
saic  nature,  there  was  something  so  utterly  incon 
ceivable  in  this  sudden  passion  of  protecting  ten 
derness  towards  a  beggar  child,  this  instantaneous 
resolve  to  adopt  her  into  the  closest  relation  but 
one  in  the  world,  that  no  theory  but  that  of  a 
sudden  insanity  could  quite  explain  it.  Jim  had 
one  of  those  finely  organized  natures,  from  whose 
magnetic  sensitiveness  nothing  can  be  concealed. 
He  recognized  my  thought. 

"  Will,"  he  said,  "  I  don't  wonder  you  think  I  'm 
crazy.  But  you  need.  n't.  I  was  never  cooler- 
beaded  in  my  life ;  and  as  for  my  heart,  every  bit 
of  this  love  has  been  there  ever  since  I  was  a  little 
shaver.  I  never  tell  you  fellows  half  I  think.  I 
never  have.  I  know  you  'd  only  chaff  me,  and  I 
dare  say  you  'd  be  half  right,  too,  for  there  's  no 
doubt  I  've  got  an  awful  big  streak  of  woman  in  me. 


MY  TOURMALINE.  155 

But  a  fellow  can't  help  the  way  he  's  made  ,  and  I 
tell  you,  Will,  I  cried  myself  to  sleep  many  a  night, 
when  I  was  along  about  ten  or  twelve,  because  1 
did  n't  have  a  sister  like  most  of  the  other  boys, 
And  since  I  have  been  a  man  [dear  Jim,  seventeen 
years  and  six  months  old]  I  have  had  the  feeling 
just  as  strong  as  I  had  it  then  ;  only  I  've  had  to 
keep  it  under.  Of  course,  I  know  I  '11  have  a  wifa 
some  day.  And  that  's  another  thing,  Will,  I 
never  can  see  how  the  fellows  can  talk  about  that 
as  they  do.  I  could  n't  any  more  talk  about  my 
wife  lightly  and  laughingly  now,  while  I  don't 
know  who  she  '11  be,  than  I  could  do  it  after  I 
had  her.  I  can't  explain  it,  but  that  ?s  the  way  I 
•  feel.  But  it  '11  be  years  and  years  before  I  have 
a  wife,  and  do  you  know,  Will  —  I  suppose  this 
is  another  streak  of  woman  in  me  —  when  I  think 
of  a  wife,  I  never  think  so  much  of  some  one  who 
is  going  to  be  all  feeble  and  clinging,  dependent 
on  me,  as  I  do  of  somebody  who  will  be  great 
and  strong  and  serene,  and  will  let  me  take  care  of 
her  only  because  she  loves  me  so  much,  and  not  a 
bit  because  she  needs  to  be  taken  care  of.  But  a 
sister  is  different.  I  'd  just  like  to  have  a  sister 
that  could  n't  do  without  me.  And,  by  Jove,  if  ever 
a  man  had  the  thing  he  wanted  put  right  straight 
'aito  his  hand,  I  should  think  I  had.  Don't  you  ?  " 
"  Yes,  I  should  think  you  had,  you  dear  old 
muff,"  I  said.  :'  But  what  in  thunder  are  you 
going  to  do  with  the  child  ?  You  can't  carry  her 
vack  to  college  with  us." 


156  MY  TOURMALINE. 

"  I  know  that ;  but  I  can  have  her  at  school 
there,  and  see  her  every  day ;  and  we  can  keep  her 
with  us  here,  this  winter,  and  she  '11  get  to  loving 
me  first-rate  before  spring." 

"  Well,  as  for  that,  the  little  beggar  loves  you 
enough  already,  —  that 's  easy  to  see.  It 's  a  case 
of  love  at  first  sight,  on  both  sides,"  I  said,  care 
lessly.  Jim  flushed. 

"  Look  here,  Will,"  he  said,  very  soberly,  "  you 
must  n't  speak  that  way.  We  '11  quarrel  as  sure  as 
fate,  old  boy,  if  you  do  it ;  you  must  remember 
that  from  this  day,  Ally  is  just  the  same  as  if  she 
were  my  own  sister,  blood-born.  And  is  n't  it 
strange,  too,  that  Alice  was  my  mother's  name  ? 
That 's  only  one  more  of  the  strange  things  about 
it  all.  Supposing,  for  instance,  we  'd  gone  the 
other  road,  as  we  came  so  near  doing,  we  should  n't 
have  got  here  till  day  after  to-morrow,  and  she  'd 
have  been  in  their  infernal  poor-house  by  that  time, 
I  dare  say ;  is  n't  this  what  you  might  call  Fate 
with  a  vengeance  ?  I  don't  wonder  the  old  Pagans 
believed  in  it  as  they  did.  I  believe  I  'm  half 
Pagan  myself." 

"  Now,  Jim,"  I  interrupted,  "  don't  go  off  into 
the  classic  ages.  If  you  are  really  going  to  be 
such  a " 

"  Say  fool,  and  be  done  with  it,  Will ;  I  don't 
mind,"  he  laughed. 

"  Well  j  if  you  're  really  going  to  be  such  a  fool 
is  to  adopt  '  Ally,'  and  really  want  to  keep  hei 


MY   TOURMALINE.  157 

with  us  at  Parson  Allen's  this  winter,  the  sooner  we 
drive  over  and  see  the  old  gentleman  and  break  the 
news  to  him,  the  better.  Oh,  Jim  !  " —  and  I  roared 
at  the  bare  thought  of  how  queer  a  look  the  thing 
had  on  the  face  of  it  —  "  what  will  become  of  us 
if  the  parson  has  a  keen  sense  of  humor !  Two 
college  boys  rusticated  for  serious  misconduct,  ar 
riving  at  the  door  of  his  house  with  a  young  miss 
in  their  charge.  I  never  thought  of  this  before. 
It 's  enough  to  kill  one  !  " 

Jim  laughed,  too.  He  could  not  help  it.  But 
he  looked  very  uneasy. 

"  It  is  awkward,"  he  said ;  "  there  's  no  doubt 
about  that !  I  'd  rather  face  the  President  again 
than  this  old  parson,  but  I  've  got  a  conviction  that 
this  thing  is  going  to  be  all  of  a  piece  right  straight 
through,  and  that  the  parson  '11  be  on  my  side." 

"  The  parson's  wife  is  more  important,  I  reckon," 
said  I.  "  It  '11  all  turn  on  how  she  takes  it." 

"  Well,  I  think  she  's  all  right,"  Jim  replied. 
"  Old  Curtis,  my  guardian,  knows  her.  He  says 
she  's  an  angel ;  he  knew  her  before  she  was  mar 
ried,  and  something  in  the  dear  old  man's  face, 
when  he  spoke  of  her,  made  me  wonder  if  it  was  n't 
for  her  sake  he  'd  lived  an  old  bachelor  all  his  life. 
She  was  a  Quaker,  he  said,  and  they  have  n't  ever 
had  any  children.  You  know  that  it  was  Curtis 
who  asked  the  President  to  send  us  here,  don't 
you  ?  " 

I  had  not  known  this ;  it  gave  me  a  great  sense 


158  MY  TOURMALINE. 

of  relief,  for,  "  Old  Ben  Curtis,"  as  he  was  always 
called,  was  a  man  whose  instincts  were  of  the  finest 
order.  A  tenderer,  purer,  gentler,  more  chivalrous 
soul  never  lived.  His  lonely  life  had  been  for  forty 
years  a  pain  and  a  mystery  to  all  who  loved  him. 
Was  it  possible  that  two  careless  college  boys  were 
to  come  upon  the  secret  of  it,  in  this  little  village 
in  the  heart  of  Maine  ? 

When  we  went  down-stairs,  Alice  was  fast  asleep. 
She  began  already  to  look  younger  and  prettier  ; 
the  dark  circles  under  her  eyes  were  disappearing, 
and  the  pitiful  look  of  anxiety  had  gone  from  the 
forehead.  Mrs.  Bunker  stood  watching  her. 

"  She  's  as  pooty  a  little  gal  as  ye  often  see,"  she 
said,  turning  to  Jim,  with  an  evident  and  assured 
recognition  of  his  paternal  proprietorship.  "  I  'II 
be  bound  ye  won't  never  regret  a-taken'  on  her,  sir. 
I  suppose  ye  '11  send  her  right  to  yer  folks  ? "  she 
added,  endeavoring  to  put  the  question  carelessly, 
but  succeeding  poorly  in  veiling  the  thought  which 
was  uppermost  in  her  mind. 

"  No,  Mrs.  Bunker,"  said  Jim,  "  I  shall  not  send 
her  away  if  I  can  induce  Parson  Allen  to  keep  her 
for  the  winter.  I  want  her  here  very  much." 

Mrs.  Bunker's  countenance  fell.    Plainly  she  had 

had  hopes  that  the  child  might  be  left  in  her  own 

hands.     But  the  native  loyalty  and  goodness  of  her 

heart  triumphed  speedily,  and  she  said,  in  a  hearty 

one,  — 

"  Lor'  me  !     I  never  once  thought  of  that !     But 


MY  TOURMALINE.  159 

I  reckon  it  would  be  jest  what  Mis'  Allen  would 
like.  She's  dreadful  fond  o'  children.  She  an' 
the  parson  hain't  never  had  any  o'  their  own." 

Jim  glanced  at  me  triumphantly. 

"Yes,"  the  good  soul  went  on  ;  "  I  do  reely  think 
there  's  a  kind  o'  Providence  in  the  hull  thing  from 
fust  to  last.  I  've  often  heerd  Mis'  Allen  say  that 
she  an'  the  Parson  hed  thought  of  adoptin'  a  little 
gal,  but  they  never  quite  see  their  way  to  do  it. 
You  see,  his  salary  's  dreadful  small.'  Tain't  much 
we  kin  raise  in  money  down  here,  and  there  's  a 
sight  o'  men  folks  moved  out  o'  town  'n  the  last  few 
years.  So  I  reckon  Mis'  Allen's  given  up  all  idea 
on't  long  ago.  Did  ye  ever  see  her  ?  She  's  jest 
the  handsomest  old  lady  ye  ever  sot  eyes  on. 
There  ain't  a  gal  in  the  meetin'us,  not  one,  that's 
got  such  cheeks  as  Mis'  Allen,  an'  she  's  goin'  on 
sixty.  She  's  a  Quaker,  for  all  she  's  married  the 
parson,  an'  they  do  say  there  's  somethin'  in  the 
Quaker  religion  that 's  wonderful  purifyin'  to  the 
complexion.  I  don'no  how  't  is.  But  there  ain't 
no  such  cheeks  as  Mis'  Allen's  in  our  meetin'us, 
old  or  young ;  I  '11  say  that  much,  whether  it 's  the 
religion  makes  'em,  or  not." 

Fairly  launched  on  the  subject  of  Mrs.  Allen, 
good  Mrs.  Bunker  would  have  talked  until  noon, 
apparently,  if  Jim  had  not  interrupted  her  to  say 
that  we  must  go  at  once  to  report  our  arrival  to 
Parson  Allen,  and  to  see  what  arrangements  we 
*ould  make  for  Alice  there. 


l6o  MY  TOURMALTNE. 

"  Remember,  Mrs.  Bunker,"  he  said,  with  great 
earnestness,  "if  Ally  wakes,  she  is  not  to  leave  this 
room,  and  I  do  not  wish  her  to  see  any  one  excepl 
yourself ;  she  must  not  be  told  that  her  father  is 
dead  by  any  one  but  me.  I  hope  very  much  that 
she  will  sleep  till  we  return.  I  think  she  will,  for 
she  is  very  much  exhausted."  Jim's  magnetism  of 
nature  always  stood  him  instead  of  authority,  and 
was  far  more  sure  of  obtaining  his  ends  than  any 
possible  authority  could  be.  He  simply  mesmer 
ized  people's  wills  so  that  they  desired  and  chose 
to  do  the  things  he  wished  done.  It  was  perfectly 
plain  already  that  so  far  as  Ally  was  concerned, 
Mrs.  Bunker  and  her  whole  household  were  at  Jim's 
command. 

As  we  drew  near  the  parsonage,  our  hearts  sank. 
Our  errand  grew  more  and  more  formidable  in  our 
eyes.  Jim's  face  took  on  a  look  more  serious  than 
I  had  ever  seen  it  wear,  and  he  said  little.  I  felt 
impatient  and  irritable. 

"  Oh,  bother  the  thing ! "  I  exclaimed,  as  I 
opened  the  gate  ;  "  I  don't  see  how  we  're  going  to 
have  the  face  to  ask  them  to  take  the  child.  If  it 
were  only  a  boy,  it  would  be  different." 

Jim  turned  a  slow  look  of  unutterable  surprise 
on  me. 

"Why,  I  don't  see  what  difference  that  would 
make.  I  guess  girls  are  not  so  much  trouble. 
And  I  should  n't  have  taken  her  if  she  'd  been  a 
boy.  It  was  a  sister  I  wanted.  I  've  got  you  for 
brother,  you  know." 


MY  TOURMALINE.  l6l 

I  felt  guilty  at  heart. 

"You  dear  old  boy,"  I  exclaimed,  "go  ahead; 
I  won't  go  back  on  you." 

We  walked  slowly  up  to  the  door,  between  two 
old-fashioned,  narrow  flower-beds.  They  were 
brown  and  rusty  now,  but  in  spring  must  have 
been  gay,  for  there  were  great  mats  of  the  moss 
pink,  thickets  of  phlox,  and  bushes  of  flowering 
almond.  Now,  the  only  blossoms  left  were  the 
old-fashioned  "  Ladies'  Delights,"  which  were  still 
plentiful,  and  seemed  to  have  been  allowed  to  run 
at  will  from  one  end  of  the  beds  to  the  other. 
The  house  was  a  large  two-story  house,  square, 
white,  with  nine  windows  on  the  front ;  on  one  side 
of  the  door  stood  a  scrawny  lilac-tree  ;  on  the  other, 
a  high  bush  of  southern-wood.  As  Jim  lifted  the 
big  black  knocker,  he  said,  under  his  breath  : 
"  Well,  there  's  room  enough,  anyhow.  Look  at 
the  windows  !  I  wonder  what  the  parson  lives  in 
such  a  big  house  for,  if  it  is  n't  on  purpose  to  take 
us  all  in." 

"  Perhaps  he  don't  have  the  whole  of  it,"  said  I. 

At  that  instant,  before  the  knocker  fell,  the  door 
was  opened,  and  there  stood  "  Mis'  Allen."  I  had 
broken,  a  bit  of  the  southern-wood,  and  was  crump 
ling  the  sweet-bitter  leaves  in  my  fingers  as  the 
door  opened.  To  this  day  I  can  never  smell 
southern-wood  without  recalling  the  picture  of  Mis 
tress  Dorothy  Allen  as  she  stood  in  that  door-way. 

"  No  such  cheeks,"  indeed !     Well   might  Mrs 
ii 


1 62  MY    "OURMALINE, 

Bunler  hivesar.d  it.  They  were  of  such  pi.ik  ag 
lines  the  innermost  curves  of  the  conch  shell ;  and 
the  rest  of  the  face  was  white  and  soft.  Her  eyes 
were  as  bright-brown  as  little  Alice's,  but  were  se 
rene  and  grave.  Very  thin  white  hair  was  put 
smoothly  back  under  a  transparent  lace  cap,  which 
was  tied  under  the  chin  by  a  narrow  white  ribbon. 
Her  dress  was  of  a  pale  gray,  and  fell  straightly  to 
her  feet.  Folds  of  the  finest  plain  white  lace  were 
crossed  on  her  bosom,  and  fastened  by  two  tiny 
gold-headed  pins,  joined  together  by  an  inch  or  two 
of  fine  thread-like  gold  chain  —  the  only  thing  bor 
dering  upon  ornament  which  she  ever  wore. 

"How  does  thee  do?  And  thee?"  she  said, 
holding  out  motherly  hands  first  to  Jim,  and  then 
to  me.  "  Come  in.  We  were  just  about  to  have 
family  prayers,  and  waited,  because  I  had  seen  you 
at  the  gate.  It  is  a  good  hour  to  have  come  home ; " 
and  she  smiled  upon  us  so  warmly  that  we  could 
not  remember  to  speak,  but  followed  her  into  the 
house,  bewildered  by  our  welcome. 

Parson  Allen  sat  at  a  window ;  the  bright  autun  n 
sun  streamed  in  across  the  open  Bible  which  lay 
on  his  knees.  Nearly  in  the  centre  of  the  room 
stood  a  tall  oleander-tree,  in  full  bloom.  The  sun 
light  poured  through  and  through  its  pink  blos 
soms,  and  seemed  to  fill  the  room  with  a  rosy  glow. 

"I  am  glad  to  see  you,  my  sons,"  said  Parson 
Allen.  "  I  take  it  as  a  sign  from  the  Lord,  that 
you  should  have  reached  my  house  just  at  this 


MY  TOURMALINE.  163 

hour;  wo  always  begin  our  days  with  prayer." 
There  was  not  a  trace  of  anything  sanctimonious 
or  pharisaical  in  his  manner.  It  was  as  simple  and 
hearty  and  loving  as  if  he  were  speaking  of  his 
affection  for  an  earthly  friend,  and  his  habit  of 
morning  greeting  to  him.  As  he  waved  his  hand 
to  us  to  be  seated,  and  said,  "  After  prayers,  we 
will  tell  you  how  glad  we  are  to  see  you,  wife  and 
I,"  by  some  sudden,  undefined  association,  the 
words,  "Christ,  our  elder  brother,"  floated  into  my 
mind.  I  glanced  at  Jim.  His  eyes  were  misty. 
The  religious  element  was  much  more  fully  devel 
oped  in  his  nature  than  in  mine,  and  he  was  much 
more  profoundly  impressed  than  I,  by  the  spiritual 
atmosphere  of  the  scene.  He  afterwards  said  to 
me,  that  he  could  think  of  nothing  while  the  par 
son  was  speaking,  except  that  this  must  be,  the 
way  angels  welcomed  new-comers  into  Heaven,  if 
they  happened  to  arrive  while  the  singing  was  go 
ing  on.  We  sat  down  together  in  one  of  the  deep 
window-seats ;  more  than  once,  at  some  Bible  verse 
read  in  a  peculiarly  impressive  manner,  Jim's  hand 
stole  over  to  mine,  and  his  eyes  dropped  to  the 
floor.  But  what  was  our  astonishment  when,  nftei 
the  Psalm,  came  these  words  from  the  "  Enchirid 
ion  "  of  Epictetus  :  — 

"  There  are  things  which  are  within  our  power, 
and  there  are  things  which  are  beyond  our  power, 
Within  our  power  are  opinion,  aim,  desire,  aversion. 
and,  in  one  word,  whatever  affairs  are  our  own. 


164  MY  TOURMALINE. 

Beyond  our  power  are  body,  property,  reputation, 
office,  and,  in  one  word,  whatever  are  not  properly 
our  own  affairs. 

"  Now  the  things  within  our  power  are  by  nature 
free,  unrestricted,  unhindered ;  but  those  beyond 
our  power  are  weak,  dependent,  restricted,  alien, 
Remember,  then,  that  if  you  attribute  freedom  to 
things  by  nature  dependent,  and  take  what  belongs 
to  others  for  your  own,  you  will  be  hindered,  you 
will  lament,  you  will  be  disturbed,  you  will  find 
fault  both  with  gods  and  men.  But  if  you  take  for 
your  own  only  that  which  is  your  own,  and  view 
what  belongs  to  others  just  as  it  really  is,  then  no 
one  will  ever  compel  you,  no  one  will  restrict  you ; 
you  will  find  fault  with  no  one,  you  will  accuse  no 
one,  you  will  do  nothing  against  your  will ;  no  one 
will  hurt  you,  you  will  not  have  an  enemy,  nor  will 
you  suffer  any  harm." 

Jim  and  I  had  been  wild  boys.  We  had  come 
down  to  this  far  away  village  in  disgrace,  with 
something  of  bitterness  and  resentment  entering 
;nto  all  our  resolutions  of  good  behavior.  But  in 
our  first  hours  in  the  parsonage,  the  bitterness,  the 
doubt,  the  resentment,  melted  away,  and  there  was 
sown  in  our  souls  a  seed  of  reverence,  of  belief,  of 
purpose,  whose  whole  harvest  has  never  been  gar 
nered,  neither  indeed  can  be,  since  in  Eternity  is 
neither  seed-time  nor  harvest. 

In  less  than  half  an  hour  after  prayers  were 
ended,  Jim  and  I  had  told  to  our  newly  found 


MY  TOURMALINE.  1 6$ 

friends  the  whole  story  of  little  Alice,  and  of  out 
desire  to  bring  her  to  live  with  us  at  the  parsonage 
for  the  winter.  Mrs.  Allen's  eyes  glistened  at  the 
thought. 

"  Husband,"  she  said,  slowly,  "  I  feel  myself 
much  drawn  toward  this  little  girl.  Does  thee  not 
think  it  is  a  clear  call  that  this  young  man's  heart 
is  so  set  upon  bringing  her  to  live  under  our  roof  ?  " 

"  Dorothy,  thee  knows  that  it  shall  be  as  thee 
likes,"  said  Parson  Allen,  his  eyes  resting  as  lov 
ers'  eyes  rest,  on  the  smooth  cheeks,  whose  beauti 
ful  pink  was  deeping  a  little  in  her  eager  interest ; 
"  but  we  must  consider  whether  James's  guardian 
will  think  we  have  done  wisely  in  permitting  him  to 
undertake  the  charge  of  a  child.  My  mind  mis 
gives  me  that  most  people  would  not  approve  of  his 
taking  this  burden  upon  him." 

"  Benjamin  Curtis  is  not  of  the  world's  people 
at  heart,"  said  Mistress  Dorothy,  gently.  "  He 
cannot  have  changed  in  that,  I  am  persuaded, 
though  it  is  thirty-five  years  since  I  saw  him.  If, 
as  James  says,  he  has  these  thousands  of  dollars 
each  year  to  spend,  Benjamin  Curtis  will  joy  to  see 
him  spending  it  on  another  rather  than  himself." 

"  That  he  will,"  burst  in  Jim.  "  He  's  the  most 
generous  old  boy  in  the  world.  Why,  he  goes  look 
ing  like  a  beggar  himself  half  the  time,  he  gives 
away  so  much  of  his  own  money ;  and  he 's  nevei 
BO  pleased  with  me  as  when  I  go  and  tell  him  thai 
I  've  just  given  away  my  whole  quarter's  allowance 
am  dead  broke." 


1 66  MY  TOURMALINE. 

Mistress  Allen's  eyes  were  fixed  dreamily  on  the 
cleander-tree,  but  her  mouth  was  tremulous  with 
intent  interest. 

"  Did  thee  say  that  thy  guardian  was  frequently 
impoverished  himself,  by  reason  of  his  gifts  to  the 
poor  ?  "  she  asked.  "  That  is  like  the  boy  I  knew 
forty  years  ago." 

"  Why,  no,  I  can't  exactly  say  he  's  impoverished, 
because  he  's  got  heaps  of  money,  you  know,"  re 
plied  Jim ;  "  but  he 's  so  full  of  other  people's 
troubles  and  needs  that  he  don't  remember  his 
own,  and  he  goes  pretty  seedy  half  the  time,  bless 
his  old  heart !  He  's  the  biggest  brick  of  a  guar 
dian  a  fellow  ever  had.  I  know  just  as  well,  Mrs. 
Allen,  that  he  '11  be  only  too  glad  to  have  me  adopt 
Ally  for  my  sister,  and  take  care  of  her  all  the  rest 
of  my  life,  as  if  I  'd  asked  him  ;  and  it  will  only 
take  four  days  to  hear  from  him  ;  I  sent  a  letter 
this  morning.  You  '11  very  soon  see  that  it  is  all 
right." 

"  In  the  mean  time,  the  little  girl  would  be  better 
off  with  us  than  in  that  wretched  place  where  she 
is  now,"  said  Mrs.  Allen.  "  Mrs.  Bunker  is  a 
kindly  woman,  but  there  are  sights  and  sounds 
there  which  the  child  should  know  nothing  of. 
Thee  had  better  bring  her  over  this  afternoon,  that 
is,"  she  added,  turning  to  me,  "  if  thy  friend  will 
share  thy  room  for  a  few  days,  and  give  up  to  the 
child  the  one  we  had  prepared  for  him.  We  have 
oot  had  need  for  many  rooms,  and  have  had  no 


MY   TOURMALINE.  1 6? 

money  to  spend  on  anything  but  needs  ;  so  most  of 
our  chambers  are  still  unfurnished  ;  "  and  a  shade 
of  what  would  have  been  mortification  thirty-five 
years  before,  but  was  now  only  sweet  resignation  to 
a  cross,  passed  over  the  beautiful  old  face. 

The  dreaded  errand  was  over;  the  difficulties 
had  all  vanished,  as  Jim's  prophetic  sense  had  as 
sured  him  they  would  ;  and  we  parted  from  Parson 
Allen  and  his  wife,  as  we  might  have  parted  from 
our  father  and  mother,  eager  to  come  back  to  our 
home  at  the  earliest  possible  moment. 

It  was  a  mile  from  the  parsonage  to  the  hotel ; 
Jim  drove  furiously,  and  hardly  spoke  during  the 
whole  distance. 

"  I  '11  never  forgive  myself  for  staying  so  long,  if 
Ally's  waked  up  and  cried,"  he  said.  "  We  might 
have  done  it  all  in  one  half  the  time.  Will,  did  you 
ever,  in  all  your  life,  see  such  a  heavenly  old  face  ? 
It's  enough  to  make  a  saint  of  a  fellow  just  to  look 
at  her !  I  sha'  n't  ever  call  her  '  Mrs.  Allen ! '  I  Ve 
got  to  call  her  '  mother,'  or  '  aunt,'  or  something. 
Guardy  was  right,  she  's  an  angel,"  he  exclaimed, 
as  he  jumped  out  of  the  buggy,  and  throwing  the 
reins  to  me,  bounded  into  the  house. 

Ally  was  still  asleep  ;  Mrs.  Bunker  said  she  had 
roused  once,  and  asked  for  "  the  kind  gentleman," 
SLrid  on  being  told  that  he  had  left  word  that  she 
must  not  stir  from  bed;  had  asked  pitifully  :  "  Does 
he  keep  little  girls  in  bed  all  day,  every  day  ? ''  and 
had  then  fallen  asleep  again  almost  immediately. 


1 68  MY  TOURMALINE. 

"  I  don't  wonder,  sir,  that  Mr.  Ordway  's  so  taken 
with  her,"  said  Mrs.  Bunker  to  me,  as  we  stood 
together  in  the  front  door.  "  She  's  jest  the  win- 
nin'est  child  I  ever  laid  eyes  on  ;  she  's  jest  like  a 
lamb,  yit  there  ain't  nothin'  stoopid  about  her. 
But,  ain't  it  strange,  she  never  so  much  's  asked  for 
her  pa?  I  was  all  over  a  tremble  for  fear  she 
would.  I  reckon  it 's  a  mercy  the  Lord  's  taken 
her  out  o'  his  hands." 

I  did  not  see  Jim  or  Ally  for  some  hours.  I 
went  several  times  to  the  door,  but  I  heard  Jim's 
voice  talking  in  a  low  and  earnest  tone,  and  I  knew 
he  wras  telling  the  child  of  her  father's  death  and 
of  his  intention  of  adopting  her  as  his  sister,  and 
it  was  better  that  they  should  be  alone.  At  last 
Jim  called  me  in.  He  was  sitting  at  the  head  of 
the  bed,  and  Ally's  head  was  on  his  shoulder.  I 
never  forgot  the  picture.  Ally  had  been  crying 
bitterly,  but  her  face  had  a  look  of  perfect  peace 
on  it.  Jim  had  been  crying  also,  but  his  eyes  shone 
with  joy  and  eager  purpose. 

"  Ally,"  he  said,  as  I  entered,  "  this  is  Will.  He 
is  just  the  same  as  my  brother ;  so  he  is  just  the 
same  as  your  brother,  you  know." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Ally,  looking  at  me  with  a  grave 
and  searching  expression.  "  Shall  I  kiss  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  indeed,  you  dear  little  thing,"  I  exclaimed ; 
and  as  I  stooped  over,  she  put  one  tiny  thin  arm 
ground  my  neck,  —  the  other  was  around  Jim's,  — 
drew  my  head  down  to  her  face,  and  kissed  me 


MY  TOURMALINE.  169 

once,  twice,  three  times,  with  the  sweetest  kisses 
lips  ever  gave.  I  thought  so  then  ;  I  think  so  still. 
From  that  moment  my  fealty  to  Alice  was  as  strong 
as  Jim's.  Wondrous  little  maid-child  !  Alone,  un 
known,  beggared,  outcast,  she  had  won  to  her  ser 
vice  and  forever  two  strong  and  faithful  hearts  with 
all  the  loyalty  of  manhood  springing  in  them. 

Two  days  later,  Jim  and  Alice  and  I  were  all  so 
peacefully  settled  down  in  our  new  home  that  it 
seemed  as  if  we  had  been  living  there  for  weeks. 
Never  did  household  so  easily,  so  swiftly  adjust  it 
self  to  new  bonds,  new  conditions.  The  secret  laws 
of  human  relations  are  wonderfully  like  those  of 
chemistry.  An  instant  of  time  is  enough  for 
blending,  where  the  affinity  is  true  ;  an  eternity  is 
not  enough,  if  the  affinity  do  not  exist.  Oh,  the 
years  and  strength,  and  vital  force  which  we  waste 
in  the  vain  endeavor  to  make  antagonistic  currents 
flow  smoothly  together !  When  Mrs.  Allen  first 
looked  into  Ally's  face,  tears  sprang  to  her  eyes, 
and  she  exclaimed  involuntarily :  "  Dear  child,  dear 
child ;  does  thee  think  thee  could  call  me  mother  ? " 
Ally  flung  both  her  arms  round  the  old  lady's  neck, 
and  said,  in  a  tone  so  earnest  that  it  made  her  sim 
ple  answer  more  emphatic  than  volumes  of  assev 
eration  could  have  been  :  — • 

"Yes,  ma'am;  I  'd  like  to  very  much,  if  you  will 
be  my  brother  Jim's  mother,  too." 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Allen,  please  let  me  !  "  said  Jim,  in  a 
tone  as  simple  and  earnest  as  Ally's. 


I/O  MY  TOURMALINE. 

*'  And  me,  too  !  I  can't  be  the  only  orphan  in  the 
house,"  exclaimed  I. 

The  sweet  old  face  flushed,  and  she  turned  smil 
ingly  to  her  husband,  saying  :  — 

"  A  quiver  full — is  it  not,  husband  ?" 

"He  setteth  the  solitary  in  families,"  replied 
Parson  Allen,  solemnly  and  tenderly.  "  God  bless 
you  all,  my  children."  And  he  drew  Ally  to  his 
arms  very  fondly. 

It  was  thought  best  that  Ally  should  know  noth 
ing  of  the  circumstances  of  her  father's  death,  nor 
of  his  funeral.  It  was  enough  for  her  trusting  little 
soul  to  be  told  that  he  had  died.  There  was  no 
bond  of  love  between  them.  He  had  represented 
to  her  only  terror  and  suffering,  since  her  baby- 
^ood.  The  strongest  proof  of  this  was  the  fact 
that  sne  never  mentioned  his  name  ;  of  her  mothe  r 
she  had  no  recollection  ;  her  life  had  been  almost 
incredibly  sad ;  it  was  hard  to  conceive  how  a  child 
could  have  lived  to  be  eleven  years  old,  and  have 
had  so  few  associations  stamped  on  her  mind, 
either  with  places  or  people.  Her  memories 
seemed  to  be  chiefly  of  hunger  and  loneliness,  and 
terror  of  her  father  •  of  room  after  room  in  which 
she  had  been  left  alone,  day  after  clay,  and  some 
times  night  after  night,  for  weeks  and  months  ;  and 
of  long  journeys  which  were  one  shade  less  dread 
ful  than  the  solitary  confinement  had  been,  because, 
as  she  said  quietly  :  "  Everybody  spoke  to  me,  and 
I  liked  that." 


MY   -rOURMALINE.  I?! 

It  was  a  marvel  how,  in  this  hard  life,  had  grown 
.he  grace  and  instincts  which  made  Ally  so  lovable. 
She  had  had  no  books,  no  toys  •  she  had  known  no 
other  child  ;  she  had  spent  whole  years  of  days,  sim 
ply  watching  the  sun  and  the  sky,  as  a  little  savage 
might  in  the  forest ;  but  in  place  of  the  savage's 
sense  of  freedom,  she  had  had  the  constant  pain  of 
constraint  and  fear.  There  was  a  certain  fine  fiber 
in  her  nature,  which  had  saved  her  from  being  be 
numbed  and  dulled  by  these  ;  had  transmuted  the 
suffering  into  a  patience  all  the  more  beautiful  that 
it  was  so  unconscious.  It  was  certain  that  this  fine 
organization  must  have  come  from  her  mother.  If 
only  we  could  have  known,  —  if  only  we  could 
have  found  a  clew  to  her  history  !  But  Ally  had  no 
recollections  of  her ;  and  the  few  papers  found  in 
her  father's  possession  threw  no  light  on  his  past  or 
his  plans  for  the  future.  What  could  have  brought 
him  to  this  remote  spot,  no  one  could  divine ;  and 
where  their  luggage  had  been  left,  Ally  did  not 
know. 

"  It 's  just  as  if  she  had  been  dropped  out  of  the 
skies  to  me,"  said  Jim,  one  clay,  as  we  were  talking 
it  all  over  ;  "  and  that  is  just  where  I  used  to  look 
up,  and  think  I  saw  little  girl  angels  flying,  when  I 
was  a  little  fellow,  and  used  to  cry  for  a  sister.  I 
remember  once,  when  I  was  only  eight  years  old, 
I  spoke  right  out  loud,  in  church,  at  prayer-time 
and  asked  my  mother,  '  Oh,  mamma,  is  n't  there  the 
east  chance  of  my  ever  having  a  little  sistar  ? '  And 


MY  TOURMALINE. 

afterward,  when  she  talked  with  me  about  it,  she 
cried  so,  that  I  never  said  another  word  about  a 
sister  to  her  till  she  died.  But  I  remember  I  said 
to  her  then  :  *  I  know  I  '11  have  a  sister  some  day  ! 
I  know  I  will  !  You  see  if  I  don't !  How  can  you 
be  so  sure  God  never  will  give  me  one  ? '  And  now, 
you  see,  I  have  got  one." 

Yes  !  It  was  indeed  as  if  Ally  had  been  dropped 
out  of  the  skies  into  Jim's  hands.  We  were  her 
only  friends  in  the  country,  —  so  far  as  we  knew,  in 
the  world,  —  and  all  that  she  could  tell  us  of  herself 
was  that  she  was  eleven  years  old,  and  that  her 
name  was  Alice  Fisher. 

She  was  a  marvelous  child.  Mrs.  Bunker's 
homely  words  told  the  exact  truth  of  her  ;  they 
came  to  my  mind  constantly  in  the  course  of  our 
first  days  at  the  parsonage.  "  She  's  jest  like  a 
lamb,  and  yit  there  ain't  nothin'  stoopid  about  her." 
She  obeyed,  with  an  instant  and  pathetic  docility, 
the  slightest  suggestion  from  any  one  of  us ;  she 
rarely  made  a  movement  of  her  own  accord. 
Wherever  we  placed  her,  whatever  we  gave  her  to 
do,  there  she  stayed  ;  with  that  thing  she  continued 
to  occupy  herself  until  some  one  proposed  a  change. 

This  was  the  result  of  the  long  patience  she  had 
learned  in  her  sad  years  of  solitude  and  confine 
ment.  But  her  eager  brown  eyes  watched  with  in- 
tensest  interest  everything  that  happened  within 
her  sight,  and  no  word  that  was  spoken  escaped  her 
ittention.  At  family  prayers,  while  the  Bible  was 


MY  TOURMALINE.  1/3 

Deing  read,  her  face  was  a  study.  She  had  known 
but  dimly  of  God  and  of  Christ,  and  she  had  never 
in  her  life  said  a  prayer  until  she  had  knelt  by  her 
new  mother's  side  on  the  first  evening  of  our  ar 
rival. 

The  next  morning,  immediately  after  prayers,  we 
were  all  startled  by  this  question  from  her  :  — 

"Why  don't  you  go  into  the  room  where  God  is  ? 
Is  it  that  one  ?  "  pointing  to  the  closed  door  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  hall. 

The  little,  ignorant  child  had  felt  to  her  heart's 
core  the  same  atmosphere  which  had  so  impressed 
us  when  we  first  heard  Parson  Allen  pray.  She  felt, 
as  we  knew,  that  he  was  speaking  to  some  one  very 
near.  Every  fiber  of  motherhood  in  Mrs.  Allen's 
heart  twined  around  this  sensitive,  loving,  helpless 
little  creature. 

"  She  seems  to  me  like  a  babe,"  she  said  ;  "  like 
a  babe  found  in  the  wilderness.  I  hope  we  may  be 
guided  to  nurture  her  aright,  for  I  believe  she  is  a 
child  of  very  rare  gifts.  She  has  not  known  the 
name  of  Christ,  but  she  has  lived  his  life,  and  I 
have  a  conviction  that  she  is  one  of  his  chosen 
ones." 

No  danger  but  that  Ally  would  be  nurtured  aright 
in  the  house  of  which  Dorothy  Allen's  sweet  soul 
ivas  the  central  warmth,  and  the  man  she  loved 
was  the  light  and  strength.  I  have  seen  many 
households,  households  of  wealth  and  culture, 
households  of  simple  and  upright  living,  but  I  have 


174  MY  TOURMALINE. 

never  seen  one  which  so  filled  my  ideal  of  a  home 
as  this  plain  and  poor  little  parsonage.  The  secret 
of  it  all  lay  in  the  fact  that  its  life  was  idealized  \ 
idealized,  first,  by  Dorothy  Allen's  lovingness  and 
her  fine  sense  of  beauty  and  grace  ;  secondly,  by 
her  husband's  fine  sense  of  moral  truth,  and  his 
devotion  to  thought  and  study.  Parson  Allen  was 
a  rare  scholar.  Only  his  great  modesty  prevented 
his  being  known  as  one  of  the  finest  Greek  scholars 
in  the  country ;  but  all  his  learning  did  not  in  the 
least  detract  from  the  "  simplicity  of  Christ,"  with 
which  he  was  filled.  I  shall  never,  in  any  world, 
hear  a  grander  outburst  of  praise  from  lips  of  saint 
or  angel  than  these  words  seemed  to  me,  pro 
nounced  as  he  often  used  to  pronounce  them  at 
the  end  of  his  morning  prayer :  "  For  the  sake  of 
our  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  the  blessed  and  only  Po 
tentate,  the  King  of  kings,  and  Lord  of  lords ;  who 
only  hath  immortality,  dwelling  in  the  light  which 
no  man  can  approach  unto  ;  whom  no  man  hath 
seen  nor  can  see  ;  to  whom  be  honor  and  power 
everlasting.  Amen." 

His  enthusiasm  for  study,  his  recognition  and 
love  of  high  thoughts,  were  no  less  hearty  than  his 
enthusiasm  for  Christ  and  his  love  of  souls.  Theie 
were  no  limitations  to  his  religion.  Life,  from 
Adam  until  now,  was  to  him  all  one  great,  beautiful 
revelation  of  God.  He  was  a  devoted  disciple  of 
Christ ;  he  believed  with  all  his  heart  in  the  Chris 
tian  dispensation ;  but  he  walked  also  with  Socrates 


MY  TOURMALINE.  175 

and  Plato,  and  was  broad  enough  to  feel  that  he 
did  Christ's  words  no  dishonor  when  he  read  side 
by  side  with  them  at  our  morning  prayers,  the  brav 
est  and  most  religious  words  of  men  who,  dying 
before  Christ  was  born,  yet  saw  and  preached  and 
lived  the  truths  for  whose  sake  Christ  died.  Ah, 
never  did  two  boys  sit  at  the  feet  of  a  wiser, 
stronger,  sweeter  teacher  than  Parson  Allen.  Our 
winter  with  him  was  worth  more  to  us  than  all  our 
after  years  in  college.  The  lessons  which  we  re 
cited  to  him  from  text-books  were  the  smallest  part 
of  the  education  he  gave  us.  The  Plato  that  I  read 
to  him  I  have  forgotten.  The  Plato  that  he  read 
to  us  is  part  of  my  life. 

No  less  rare  than  his  power  of  compelling  us  un 
consciously  to  assimilate  intellectual  truths  was  his 
wife's  power  of  giving  us  spiritual  tests,  and  arous 
ing  in  us  a  need  of  the  highest  living.  We  did  not 
know,  as  the  noiseless  and  gentle  days  slipped  by, 
bow  much  beauty  they  bore.  We  did  not  know  in 
what  their  charm  lay ;  but  when  we  went  into  the 
presence  of  those  who  lived  on  a  lower  plane,  for 
smaller  ends,  and  with  a  less  love  of  beauty,  less 
depth  of  insight  and  feeling,  we  recognized  the 
change  in  the  atmosphere,  as  one  does  who  conies 
suddenly  from  pure,  outside  air,  into  the  confined 
And  impure  air  of  a  house.  I  might  write  pages  in 
the  endeavor  to  explain  this  fact ;  to  analyze  the 
fine  flavor  which  Dorothy  Allen  knew  how  to  give, 
or,  rather,  could  not  help  giving,  to  life  ;  but  mv 


MY  TOURMALINE. 

words  would  be  vain.  It  was  not  that  she  was 
always  gentle,  low-voiced,  dainty,  and  full  of  repose  • 
it  was  not  that  she  knew  how  to  produce  in  her 
simple  household,  and  with  small  means,  the  effect 
of  almost  luxury  of  living,  in  all  matters  of  food 
and  service,  and  personal  comfort ;  it  was  not  that 
she  had,  spite  of  her  Quaker  training,  a  passion  for 
color ;  and  from  December  round  to  December, 
never  permitted  her  home  to  be  one  day  without 
the  brightness  of  blossoming  flowers  ;  it  was  not 
that  her  warm,  active  nature  was  thoroughly  alive 
to  all  the  events,  all  the  interests  of  the  day,  and 
that  she  had  ever  some  new  thing  to  speak  of  with 
eager  interest,  and  found  the  days  far  too  short  for 
inquiring  into  all  the  matters  which  she  desired  to 
search  out.  It  was  no  ane  of  these  ;  it  was  not  all 
of  these.  I  have  seen  women  of  whom  all  these 
things  were  true,  but  they  did  not  create  a  home  as 
did  this  woman.  Neither  was  it  the  great  loving- 
ness  of  her  nature,  marvelous  as  that  was  :  God 
makes  many  women  who  are  all  love  and  loving- 
ness.  It  was  —  so  far  as  language  can  state  it  —  it 
was  because  in  all  these  traits,  into  every  one  of 
the  acts  springing  from  them,  there  entered  a  deep 
significance,  a  symbolic  meaning,  a  spiritual  vitality, 
born  of  her  intensity  of  temperament  and  purity 
of  nature.  The  smallest  thing  had  its  soul,  as  well 
as  its  body;  and  the  soul  radiated  through  and 
through  the  body  until  transfiguration  became  an 
«?.ver-present  reality.  For  thirty-three  years  she  had 


MY  TOURMALINE.  1 77 

every  morning  laid  by  her  husband's  plate,  before 
breakfast,  a  bunch  of  flowers  —  or  at  least,  a  green 
leaf,  if  no  flowers  were  to  be  found.  When  Jim  first 
saw  her  do  this,  he  came  to  me,  and  said,  "  Will, 
that 's  the  way  the  Lord  meant  a  woman  and  a 
man  should  love  each  other.  That  geranium-flower 
she  put  down  by  his  plate  this  morning  was  n't  sim 
ply  a  geranium-flower  —  either  to  her  or  to  him. 
Oh,  if  I  were  a  poet,  I  'd  just  write  what  I  saw  in 
her  eyes.  They  said,  '  All  the  summers  of  the 
world,  all  the  sun,  all  the  light,  all  the  color,  have 
gone  to  make  up  these  blossoms ;  since  the  begin 
ning  of  time,  the  moment  has  been  journeying  on 
at  which  it  should  bloom,  in  the  spot  where  my 
hand  could  gather  it  for  thee  ;  my  vow  is  no  less 
than  its  !  Love  it  for  to-day,  my  love !  reverence  it, 
and  to-morrow  another  blossom  will  bloom  either 
here  or  in  eternity,  also  for  thee ! ' ' 

"  Oh,  Jim,"  I  said,  "  You  ought  to  have  been 
a  woman.  I  don't  believe  the  dear  old  mother 
thought  any  such  thing.  She  knows  that  Dominie 
loves  flowers  •  that 's  all  !  " 

"  All !  "  exclaimed  Jim,  "  I  tell  you  the  flower  's 
nothing !  It  might  be  a  pebble  ;  it  might  be  a 
crown  of  diamonds  and  pearls.  It 's  the  soul  of 
love,  and  the  symbol  of  life,  when  she  lays  it  down 
there  of  a  morning.  It 's  just  so  when  she  hands 
him  a  newspaper,  for  that  matter.  I  've  seen  him 
.ook  up  at  her  as  if  she  had  just  that  minute  given 
him  herself  for  the  first  time,  dear  old  lovers,  that 

12 


178  MY  TOURMALINE. 

they  are.  And  if  you  watch,  you  '11  see  that  he  has 
that  flower  about  him  all  day  somewhere ;  if  it  is  n't 
in  his  fingers,  it 's  lying  on  his  desk,  or  in  his  but 
ton-hole.  I  've  seen  him  read  a  whole  forenoon 
with  it  in  his  hand.  I  wonder  if  anything  like  it 
will  ever  happen  to  you  or  me,  in  this  world,  Will  ? " 

"  May  be  to  you,  Jim  ;  not  to  me.  I  'm  too  pro 
saic.  I  shouldn't  understand  it.  I  don't  half 
know  what  you  mean  now,  "  replied  I.  But,  in 
spite  of  my  words,  I  did  know  dimly,  and  won 
dered,  as  Jim  had  wondered,  if  it  were  ever  to  be 
mine. 

"  I  don't  know,  old  fellow,"  said  Jim.  "  I  've  a 
notion  that  the  Dominie  was  something  such  a  fel 
low  as  you  are;  he  isn't  a  bit  like  her,  anyhow. 
That  Js  the  reason  he  worships  her  so.  Now,  I  am 
like  her.  I  know  just  how  she  feels  about  fifty 
things  a  day,  when  you  are  only  listening  to  what 
she  says,  and  trying  to  make  it  out  that  way,  just  as 
you  do  with  me,  you  dear,  old,  honest,  sturdy, 
strong,  slow  fellow,  worth  a  thousand  of  me,  any 
day.  But  if  I  were  a  woman,  and  you  loved  me, 
you  'd  understand  me  just  as  the  Dominie  under 
stands  mother." 

In  this  warmth  of  love  and  care,  little  Alice 
bloomed  out  like  the  geraniums  in  the  deep  win 
dow-seats.  At  the  end  of  two  weeks  no  one  would 
have  known  the  child,  except  by  the  hazel-brown 
eyes.  Suffering  and  feebleness  had  not  disguised 
or  dimmed  the  beauty  of  those  \  neither  could  joy 


MY  TOURMALIN'S.  1 79 

and  health  add  to  it.  They  were  simply  and  for 
ever  perfectly  beautiful.  One  looked  from  them  to 
the  shining,  yellow  curls,  and  then  back  from  the 
yellow  curls  to  the  brown  eyes,  in  almost  incredulity 
of  the  wonderful  combination.  Each  day  we  feared 
to  see  the  golden  hue  change  on  the  sunny  head  ; 
but  it  never  changed,  never ! 

It  soon  became  our  habit  to  take  Ally  with  us  on 
all  our  rambles.  She  was  as  nimble  and  as  tireless 
as  a  squirrel,  and  so  full  of  joy  in  all  things  she 
saw  that  she  was  a  perpetual  delight  to  us.  She 
ran  between  us,  holding  a  hand  of  each  ;  she  ran 
before  us,  her  golden  curls  reaching  far  back  on 
the  wind  \  she  lagged  behind,  hiding  mischievously 
behind  a  tree  or  rock,  and  laughing  loud  like  an 
infant  to  hear  us  call  her.  Sometimes  we  clasped 
our  hands  together  and  carried  her  proudly  aloft 
higher  than  our  heads,  and  holding  on  clingingly  to 
each  neck.  When  we  put  her  down,  she  always 
kissed  Jim,  saying :  "  Thank  you,  brother  Jim," 
and  then,  turning  to  me  :  "  Thank  you,  too,  Mr. 
Will ;  would  you  like  to  have  me  kiss  you  ?  " 

One  day  I  said  to  her,  as  we  were  sitting  under  a 
tree  :  "  Ally,  you  always  kiss  Jim  without  asking 
him.  How  do  you  know  he  likes  it  ?  Why  don't 
you  kiss  me  without  asking  me  ?  " 

"Why,  he  is  my  brother,"  she  said  instantly; 
'*  he  wants  me  to  kiss  him  always,"  and  she  sprang 
np  with  a  wonderfully  agile  spring  which  he  had 
taught  her,  and  lit  on  his  shoulder,  where  she  sat 


180  MY  TOURMALINE. 

perched  like  a  bird,  kissing  him  over  and  over. 
Then  she  said,  more  gravely  :  "  Brother  Jim  did  n't 
&iy  you  were  my  brother.  He  said  you  were  just 
the  same  as  my  brother.  There  is  n't  any  same  as 
brother  about  kisses." 

Oh,  marvelous  maid-child  of  eleven !  Jim 
laughed,  but  I  had  a  strange  sense  of  pain  in  the 
child's  words,  and  I  waited  sorely  for  days  and  days, 
for  her  to  kiss  me,  spontaneously  and  freely  as  she 
kissed  Jim. 

The  Indian  summer  lingered  late  and  long.  The 
maples  turned  scarlet  and  gold,  the  ash-trees  to 
purple  and  yellow,  till  the  forests  outvied  the  sun 
rise  and  sunset.  Little  Alice  had  never  seen  this 
sight.  It  gave  her  delight  so  great  that  it  bordered 
on  pain.  Day  after  day  she  filled  the  house  with 
the  bright  boughs.  Not  a  corner,  hardly  a  chair, 
but  had  the  glittering  leaves  lying  in  it ;  it  was  as 
if  they  floated  down  among  us  through  the  roof ; 
and  Ally  was  never  seen  without  them  in  her  hand, 
or  placed  fantastically  around  her  belt  or  in  her 
hair.  It  grieved  her  very  heart  that  they  must 
die. 

"Oh,  why  do  they  not  stay  on  all  the  winter, 
brother  Jim  ?  "  she  said.  "  Why  can  they  not  be 
this  color  all  summer  ?  I  suppose  God  likes  green 
best  ?  Is  there  any  other  world  where  He  lets  the 
trees  be  red  and  yellow  all  the  time  ?  " 

One  afternoon,  we  were  returning  very  late  from 
g  ramble  in  the  woods,  now  nearly  leafless.  Ally 


TOURMALINE.  l8l 

had  made  a  long  wreath  of  crimson  oak-leaves,  and 
we  had  thrown  it  round  and  round  her  shoulders 
and  neck,  till  it  looked  like  a  mantle  of  red,  with 
long  ends  trailing  down  behind.  Her  golden  curls 
fluttered  like  sunbeams  across  it,  and  as  she  ran 
lightly  before  us,  and,  lifting  up  one  end  of  the 
crimson  wreath  in  her  hand,  looked  archly  through 
it  over  her  shoulder,  laughing  and  crying  out, 
<f  Now,  I  am  an  oak-tree  running  away  from  you," 
Jim  drew  a  long,  sighing  breath  and  whispered  to 
me :  "  Oh,  Will,  does  she  look  like  a  mortal  child  ? 
I  think  she  is  an  angel  and  will  fly  away  pres 
ently." 

At  that  instant  she  stumbled  over  a  projecting 
root  of  a  tree  and  fell  heavily  to  the  ground  without 
a  cry.  She  was  several  rods  in  advance  of  us  ;  be 
fore  we  reached  her  she  had  fainted. 

We  were  almost  paralyzed  with  terror ;  we  were 
two  miles  from  home,  and  on  the  top  of  a  rough  and 
rocky  ledge,  the  face  of  which  was  so  thickly  grown 
with  scrub  oaks  that  we  had  found  great  difficulty 
in  forcing  our  way  through.  "  Oh,  Will,  how  are 
we  to  get  her  home  ? "  gasped  Jim,  as  he  lifted  her 
up.  The  poor  little  white  face,  with  its  yellow  curls, 
fell  limp  and  lifeless  on  his  shoulder,  and  the  torn 
oak  wreaths  tangled  themselves  around  his  arms. 
She  looked  as  if  she  were  dead  ;  but  in  a  few  mo 
ments  she  opened  her  eyes,  and  said  :  "  I  am  not 
hurt  brother  Jim,  not  a  bit.  Where  is  the  pretty 
green  stone  ? " 


1 82  MY  TOURMALINE. 

"  Oh,  Ally  dear,  are  you  sure  you  're  not  hurt .' " 
exclaimed  Jim  ;  "  never  mind  about  the  stone ;  was 
it  that  made  you  fall  ?  " 

"  But  I  must  mind  about  the  stone,"  said  Ally. 
"  You  have  n't  got  any  such  stone  among  all  yours  ; 
it  was  as  pretty  almost  as  the  leaves;  it's  right 
down  here,  under  the  old  root  that  tripped  me  up. 
I  wanted  to  get  it  for  you,  brother  Jim,"  —  and  she 
tried  to  slip  away  from  his  arms  to  look  for  it. 

"  Stay  still,  Ally,  stay  still.  I  '11  find  it,"  said  I. 
"  What  sort  of  stone  was  it  ? " 

"  Oh,  beautiful,"  said  Ally ;  "  it  shone,  and  it  was 
shaped  like  my  prisms  !  Oh,  do  find  it,  Mr.  Will." 

I  searched  in  vain ;  the  old  tree  had  been 
partially  uprooted,  and  its  scrawny  underground 
branches  exposed  to  light,  had  twirled  themselves 
into  strange  shapes.  Stones  and  earth  had  piled 
up  around  them,  and  a  big  mullein  was  growing  on 
the  very  top  of  the  root ;  coarse  white  pebbles  and 
sharp  bits  of  granite  were  lying  all  about,  but  no 
such  stone  as  Ally  described  could  I  see. 

"  Dear  little  Ally,  you  must  have  fancied  it ;  as 
you  fell,  things  looked  different  to  you;  there  is  n't 
any  such  stone  here." 

Ally  rarely  contradicted,  or  urged  any  point ;  but 
her  child's  heart  was  too  firmly  set  on  the  pretty 
stone  to  abandon  it  without  a  further  effort. 

"  But,  Mr.  Will,  I  saw  it  before  I  fell.  It  was 
*hat  tripped  me  up.  I  mean,  I  went  to  stoop  over 
*nd  pick  it  up,  and  I  caught  my  foot."  This  was 


MY  TOURMALINE.  183 

logic  irresistible.  I  searched  again,  but  with  no 
better  result.  All  this  time,  Jim  had  been  anxiously 
studying  Ally's  face,  and  paying  little  attention  to 
the  search  for  the  stone. 

"  Ally,"  said  he  suddenly,  "  where  does  it  hurt 
you  ?  Something  hurts  you,  I  know  by  your  face." 

"  My  foot,  just  a  little  bit,  brother  Jim,  but  not  if 
I  don't  move  it,"  replied  Alice. 

"  This  one  ? "  said  Jim,  touching  it  very  gently. 

Ally  moaned  in  spite  of  herself. 

"  Yes,  that  one,  brother  Jim  ;  please  don't  touch 
it.  It  will  be  well  pretty  soon." 

Ally  had  sprained  her  ankle.  That  was  evident. 
The  slightest  movement  or  the  slightest  touch  was 
more  than  she  could  bear.  It  was  very  near  sun 
set,  and  fast  growing  cold.  To  carry  the  child 
down  that  rocky  ledge,  and  through  the  scrub  oak, 
without  giving  her  greater  torture  than  she  could 
bear,  seemed  impossible.  But  it  must  be  done. 

Jim  rose  up  very  slowly,  with  her  in  his  arms, 
saying,  "  Now  try,  dear  little  Ally,  to  bear  the 
pain." 

"  Yes,  brother  Jim,  I  will  ;  it  "  —  but  the  sen 
tence  ended  in  a  groan.  Ally  was  very  much  hurt. 
At  last,  I  arranged  a  sling  from  Jim's  right  shoulder 
in  which  both  her  legs  could  rest,  and  in  this  posi 
tion  she  bore  the  motion  better.  As  we  moved 
slowly  away  from  the  tree,  the  gentle  brown  eyes 
looked  back  wistfully;  in  spite  of  the  pain  she 
tould  not  forget  the  stone.  Suddenly  she  cried  out 


£84  MY  TOURMALINE. 

"  Oh,  there  it  is,  Mr.  Will.  Mr.  Will,  there  is  the 
stone  !  "  and  she  pointed  to  a  crevice  in  the  tree- 
roots,  higher  up  than  I  had  looked. 

There  it  was  ;  and  a  most  beautiful  stone  indeed; 
Neither  Jim  nor  I  had  ever  seen  one  like  it.  It 
was  a  crystal  nearly  two  inches  long,  of  a  brilliant 
green  color,  shading  through  paler  and  paler  tints 
to  a  clear  white,  and  then  from  white  to  a  deep  rose 
red.  For  a  second  we  almost  forgot  Ally  in  our 
wonder  at  the  gem.  There  was  nothing  like  it  in 
the  cabinet  of  our  college  ;  we  had  never  read  of 
any  such  stone. 

"  Oh,  let  me  carry  it,  Mr.  Will,"  pleaded  Ally. 
"  I  won't  drop  it,  and  it  will  help  me  bear  my  foot 
better  ; "  and  the  sensitive  child  fixed  her  eyes  with 
passionate  delight  on  the  crystal. 

Presently  she  said,  feebly,  "  Take  the  stone,  Mr. 
Will.  I  can't  hold  it.  It  pricks." 

As  I  took  it  from  her,  a  sharp  shock  of  pain  ran 
up  my  arm.  What  was  this  weird  bit  of  crystallized 
red  and  green  on  which  we  had  stumbled  ?  Had 
we,  unawares,  linked  ourselves  to  unseen  dangers^ 
hidden  spells  ?  I  was  ashamed  of  the  vague  sense 
of  terror  with  which  I  walked  on  through  the  twi 
light  recalling  the  whole  scene  :  the  little  flying 
maiden,  with  her  fantastic  red  wreaths  and  golden 
curls,  the  strange  stone,  the  mystic  bond  between 
her  and  it,  the  sharp  and  inexplicable  pain  which 
had  shot  through  my  frame  on  taking  it  from  her 
hand. 


MY  TOURMALINE.  185 

Ally's  sprain  proved  a  serious  hurt  ;  it  was  al 
most  a  fracture.  In  two  hours  after  we  reached 
home,  the  slender  ankle  was  firmly  bound  with 
splinters,  and  the  patient  little  face  looking  up 
from  pillows  on  which  the  Doctor  had  said  she 
must  probably  lie  for  some  weeks.  As  he  was  leav- 
the  room  she  said  :  — 

"  Oh,  please,  Mr.  Will,  show  my  pretty  stone  to 
the  Doctor." 

Dr.  Miller  reached  out  his  hand  eagerly  for  the 
crystal  as  soon  as  he  saw  its  shape  and  color. 

"  Why,  bless  my  soul,  what's  that,"  he  exclaimed. 
"  You  found  that  up  on  Black  Ledge  ?  Somebody 
must  have  dropped  it.  It's  an  emerald.  No,  it 
is  n't,  either.  Look  at  this  red  in  it." 

The  Doctor  was  thoroughly  excited.  He  turned 
the  stone  over  and  over,  held  it  up  to  the  lamp 
light,  all  the  while  muttering  to  himself,  "  Most  ex 
traordinary  !  Never  saw  or  heard  of  such  a  stone 
as  this  before;"  "looks  like  magic;"  "and,  by 
Jove,  I  believe  it  is,"  he  said,  dropping  the  stone 
suddenly  on  the  floor,  and  rubbing  his  fingers 
violently.  "  It's  given  me  an  electric  shock." 

"It  made  my  hand  prick,"  said  Ally.  "  I  could 
n't  hold  it  either." 

The  Doctor  and  I  stooped  at  once  to  pick  it 
up,  and  our  hands  touched  it  simultaneously.  In 
stantly  the  same  sharp  thrill  of  heat  flamed  up  my 
arm  as  before.  I  drew  back,  and  again  I  glanced 
uneasily  at  Ally,  and  felt  that  there  was  something 


1 86  MY  TOURMALINE. 

supernatural  in  the  bond  between  her  and  the 
stone.  The  Doctor  sprang  to  his  feet,  thrust  both 
his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  stood  looking  down 
at  the  crystal.  Then  he  put  the  lamp  on  the  floor. 
The  carpet  was  of  a  pale  gray.  The  gem  shone 
out  vividly  upon  it,  and  green  and  rose-colored  rays 
gleamed  and  flickered  through  it  as  we  moved  the 
lamp  from  side  to  side.  Very  quietly  Mrs.  Allen 
bent  down,  and,  after  looking  at  it  earnestly  for  a 
second  or  two,  lifted  it  and  laid  it  on  the  silver 
snuffer  tray  on  the  stand.  On  the  polished  silver 
it  looked  still  more  beautiful.  Ally  clapped  her 
hands  with  delight. 

"  It  is  evidently  some  jewel  which  has  been  lost," 
said  Mrs.  Allen.  "We  ought  to  seek  for  the  owner. 
Does  thee  not  think  it  may  be  of  great  value  ? " 
she  asked,  turned  to  Dr.  Miller. 

"  I  don't  know  anything  about  it,  Mrs.  Allen,"  re 
plied  the  Doctor.  "  I  am  inclined  to  think  there  !s 
some  kind  of  witchcraft  about  the  thing,  anyhow." 

"  But  thee  does  not  believe  in  any  kind  of  witch 
craft  about  anything,"  said  Mrs.  Allen,  with  a 
placid  twinkle  in  her  eyes.  "  Thee  knows  that 
very  well.  Can  thee  not  judge  if  it  is  a  carven  gem, 
or  if  it  is  in  a  state  of  nature  ?  I  think  I  have 
reaa  of  various  stones  having  a  certain  electrical 
power." 

"  Oh,  it  is  not  cut,"  said  the  Doctor.  "  It 's  a 
natural  crystal.  It 's  the  color  that  poses  me.  .1 
have  never  read  of  such  a  stone." 


MY  TOURMALINE.  1 87 

"  Please  let  me  take  it  a  minute,"  said  Ally. 

I  laid  it  in  her  hand.  She  stroked  it  softly  with 
the  other  hand,  then  raised  it  to  her  cheek. 

"  It  gets  brighter  every  minute  Ally  holds  it," 
exclaimed  Jim. 

Indeed  it  did.  As  we  watched  the  motions  of  it 
in  the  child's  hands,  it  seemed  almost  as  if  a  dis 
tinct  light  came  from  it,  and  played  upon  her  feat 
ures.  Suddenly  she  dropped  it,  with  a  little  cry. 

"  It  pricked  again,  brother  Jim.  Is  it  alive  ? 
Does  it  hate  to  have  us  handle  it  ?  " 

We  gathered  around  the  bed.  There  lay  the 
gem,  silent,  shining,  rosy  red  and  emerald  green, 
on  the  white  sheet,  between  Ally's  two  little  out 
stretched  hands,  which  she  held  to  right  and  left  of 
it,  as  if  afraid  it  might  escape  her.  Her  cheeks 
were  scarlet  and  her  eyes  dilated  with  excitement. 
She  watched  it  as  if  expecting  it  to  move.  I  think 
it  would  have  astonished  none  of  us  if  it  had.  We 
watched  it  for  some  time  in  silence.  Then  Mrs. 
Allen  laid  it  again  on  the  silver  tray,  and  placed 
the  tray  on  a  high  shelf,  saying,  quietly,  "  I  do  not 
feel  any  of  these  singular  sensations  myself  in 
touching  the  stone.  It  is  a  most  beautiful  jewel. 
We  must  seek  for  the  owner  to-morrow,  and  now 
this  child  must  go  to  sleep." 

Late  into  the  night  we  sat  around  the  fire  talking 
about  the  magic  stone  and  making  the  wildest  con 
jectures  about  its  nature,  its  history.  Dr.  Miller 
was  as  excited  as  Jim  and  I,  and  the  Dominie 


1 88  MY  TOURMALINE. 

seemed  carried  out  of  himself  by  the  sight  of  it. 
"  It  brings  more  to  my  mind  the  thought  of  the 
crystal  gates  of  the  heavenly  city,"  he  said,  "  than 
anything  I  have  ever  seen.  Who  knows  but  it 
may  be  one  of  the  gems  mentioned  in  Revelations 
whose  names  are  not  now  well  known. 

Dr.  Miller  smiled,  half  reverently,  half  pityingly. 

The  village  called  Dr.  Miller  an  atheist,  because 
of  the  blunt  speech  in  which  he  set  his  contempt 
for  creeds  which  they  held  sacred.  But  so  much 
the  more,  by  all  the  scorn  which  he  felt  for  the  pict 
ure  of  God  as  framed  in  the  phrases  of  men,  did 
he  love  the  picture  of  God  as  framed  in  a  rock,  or 
a  mountain,  or  a  daisy. 

"  I've  a  notion,  parson,  that  God  makes  jewels 
for  more  practical  purposes  than  for  gates  to  his 
heaven,"  he  said.  "  If  we  Ve  got  a  mine  up  on 
Black  Ledge  of  such  gems  as  this,  it 's  a  fortune  for 
some  of  us.  I  own  a  big  piece  of  the  ledge  to  the 
south  myself,  and  I  'm  going  up  the  first  thing  in 
the  morning  with  these  boys,  to  see  if  there  are  any 
more  stones  like  this  one." 

Dominie  smiled,  also  half  reverently,  half  pity 
ingly.  The  two  men  loved  each  other. 

At  dawn  Jim  and  I  sprang  up.  Jim  went  to 
the  window.  In  a  tone  of  utter  despair  he  ejacu 
lated  :  — 

"Will!" 

The  ground  was  white  with  snow  —  deep,  solid, 
level  snow.  It  must  have  snowed  furiously  all 


MY  TOURMALINE.  1 89 

night.  Winter  had  come  in  utter  earnest.  Side  by 
side  we  stood  and  looked  out  on  the  scene.  The 
air  was  thick  with  snow-flakes.  We  could  not  see 
ten  rods  from  the  house. 

"  Plague  take  this  climate,"  said  I.  "  When  it 
once  comes  down  this  way  there  's  no  let  up  to  it 
till  spring ;  I  know  all  about  it.  I  spent  a  winter 
in  Vermont  once,  and  from  the  first  of  December 
till  the  middle  of  March  we  never  saw  an  inch  of 
bare  ground.  I  just  hate  it.  Now,  we  can't  look 
after  those  stones  for  three  months." 

"I  don't  believe  there  are  any  more  of  them, 
Will,"  said  Jim,  speaking  slowly  and  in  an  earnest 
tone.  "  I  believe  there  was  just  that  one  left  there 
for  Ally,  by  angels,  for  all  I  know.  Did  you  see 
how  that  light  flickered  on  her  face  when  she 
stroked  her  cheek  with  the  stone  ?  And  if  there 
were  any  such  stones  would  n't  Dr.  Miller  know  ? 
Should  n't  we  have  seen  some  in  the  cabinet  ?  " 

"  Oh,  pshaw !  you  dear  old  Jim,"  I  said.  "  I 
agree  with  Dr.  Miller  that  God  don't  make  stones 
on  earth  for  gates  to  heaven,  nor  for  angels  to  give 
to  earthly  children —  not  even  to  Ally  !  "  I  added, 
with  a  sudden  conscience-stricken  memory  of  the 
picture  of  her  the  night  before,  with  the  tangled 
crimson  oak  wreaths  and  the  yellow  curls  and  the 
flying  feet,  and  how  I  myself  had  shuddered  in  the 
twilight  to  recall  the  thrill  of  hot  pain  which  shot 
\hrough  my  nerves  when  she  first  handed  me  the 
itone. 


IQO  MY  TOURMALINE. 

"  I  dare  say  we  '11  all  get  some  money  out  of  that 
old  ledge  yet.  New  minerals  are  all  the  time  being 
discovered." 

"  Money  !  "  said  Jim,  contemptuously.  "  I  be 
lieve  if  a  feather  should  drop  off  an  angel's  wing 
you'd  pick  it  up  and  wonder  what  it  would  sell 
for." 

"  Yes,  I  would,"  said  I,  very  composedly ;  "  not 
wearing  angels'  wings  myself,  and  having  no  kind 
of  use  for  that  kind  of  feather !  I  'd  sell  it  as  a 
curiosity  and  buy  a  pair  of  cassimere  trousers  ;  and 
so  would  you,  old  fellow,  if  you  had  n't  any  more 
money  than  I  have." 

"  Oh,  forgive  me,  Will,  dear  Will,  I  did  n't  mean 
to  be  rough  on  you !  "  exclaimed  Jim,  with  his 
whole  face  grieved  at  his  own  thoughtlessness. 
"  But  you  know  I  do  hate  money-making,  and 
money-talking,  and  money-worshiping.  If  I  had  n't 
had  money  to  begin  with,  I  'd  never  have  made  a 
cent  more  than  just  enough  to  get  bread  with." 

"  I  don't  believe  you'd  have  made  that,  old  boy," 
laughed  I.  "  You  would  have  sat  on  the  sunny 
side  of  the  almshouse,  perfectly  rapt  in  content, 
watching  angels  in  the  clouds,  and  treasuring  up 
their  feathers  if  they  happened  to  drop  any  !  And 
then  you  could  n't  have  adopted  Ally." 

"  No,"  said  Jim,  thoughtfully.  "  After  she  came, 
I  think  I  'd  have  carried  the  angels'  feathers  to 
market,  and  made  as  sharp  a  bargain  for  them  aa 
you  yourself,  Will." 


MY   TOURMALINE.  IQ1 

I  was  right.  It  was  the  winter  which  had  set  in. 
All  that  day,  and  all  the  next  day,  it  snowed  with 
out  stopping.  The  village  seemed  slowly,  steadily 
sinking  in  a  silvery  morass  ;  bush  after  bush,  stone 
wall  after  stone-wall,  fence  after  fence,  landmark 
after  landmark,  disappeared,  until  the  vas  ttracts  of 
open  country  lay  as  unbroken  as  an  Arctic  Ocean, 
and  the  very  chimney-tops  of  the  town  looked  like 
the  heads  of  hopelessly  overwhelmed  travelers.  On 
the  morning  of  the  second  day,  Dr.  Miller  came  in, 
trampling,  puffing,  and  shaking  off  snow  from  shoul 
ders,  pockets,  beard,  everywhere  ;  he  shed  the  pow 
dery  avalanches  as  a  pine-tree  sheds  them  when  it 
is  rocked  by  a  sudden  wind. 

"  Ha,  boys,"  he  exclaimed ;  "  no  hunting  for  pre 
cious  stones  on  Black  Ledge  this  year !  We  're 
snowed  up  for  three  months  at  least.  How  '11  you 
youngsters  like  that  ?  And  how  's  the  ankle,  Pussy," 
he  said,  in  a  softer  tone,  turning  to  Ally  with  such 
a  smile  as  seldom  came  on  his  rugged  face.  A  lit 
tle  bed  had  been  brought  into  the  sitting-room  and 
set  across  the  south  window.  In  this  Ally  lay, 
under  a  marvelous  coverlet  which  the  parishioners 
had  presented  to  Mrs.  Allen  at  the  last  Donation 
Party.  It  was  called  the  "  Rising  Sun  "  pattern, 
the  villagers  never  having  heard  of  the  word  Au 
rora.  But  there  was  something  pathetic  in  the  em 
bryonic  conception  which  these  hard-working  New 
England  women  had  stitched  into  their  bed-quilt  of 
flaming  Turkey  red  and  white.  A  scarlet  sun  in 


I  92  MY  TOURMALINE. 

the  centre  shot  myriad  spokes  of  red  to  the  outer 
edge  ;  and  minor  suns  with  smaller  spokes  were 
set  at  regular  intervals  around  it.  When  Ally  first 
saw  this,  she  was  so  captivated  by  its  splendors, 
that  Mrs.  Allen's  motherly  heart  could  not  resist 
giving  it  to  her ;  so  Ally  had,  as  she  said,  "  twenty- 
five  suns  to  keep  her  warm  at  night."  The  child's 
passion  for  color  was  intense.  It  was  the  forerun 
ner  of  the  exquisite  artistic  sense  and  worship  of 
beauty  in  all  things  which  marked  her  later  devel 
opment.  She  lay  now,  idly  following  with  her  tiny 
forefinger,  scarlet  ray  after  scarlet  ray  on  the  cover 
let.  The  south  window  held  two  high  abutilon- 
trees  in  full  flower.  Their  striped  orange  bells  and 
broad  green  leaves  nodded  above  her  like  a  fairy 
canopy;  and  at  the  foot  of  the  bed  stood  the 
glossy,  dark-leaved  oleander-tree,  with  a  few  pink 
blossoms  left  on  the  upper  boughs.  The  sun 
streamed  in  at  the  four  windows,  and  the  reflected 
light  from  the  snow  world  outside  was  almost  too 
dazzling.  Close  by  Ally's  side  sat  Mrs.  Allen,  her 
pale  gray  gown,  soft  white  hair,  and  filmy  lace, 
making  a  delicious  tone  of  relief  for  the  sunlit  reds 
^nd  yellows. 

Dr.  Miller  put  his  hands  behind  him  and  stood 
before  the  fire  for  some  moments,  silently  drinking 
in  the  picture.  Then  he  turned  suddenly  to  us, 
and  said  in  a  gruff  tone  :  — 

"  Boys,  how  d'  ye  like  it,  here  ?  "  Jim  laughed 
outright. 


MY  TOURMALINE.  1 93 

"  Just  about  as  well  as  you  'd  like  it  yourself, 
Doctor." 

Jim  had  been  watching  the  Doctor  closely.  The 
Doctor  chuckled,  and  clapped  him  on  the  shoulder. 

"  Pretty  good  for  you,  boy.  Bring  out  that  stone 
of  yours.  Let's  look  at  it  by  daylight.  The  con 
founded  thing  kept  me  awake  last  night.  I  can't 
imagine  what  it  is." 

Ally  raised  herself  slowly  on  one  elbow,  and, 
fumbling  under  her  pillow,  brought  out  from  a  mis 
cellaneous  store  of  treasures  a  tiny  blue  silk  bag. 
In  this  was  the  crystal. 

"  Mother  said  I  could  have  it  to  sleep  with,"  she 
said ;  "  but  in  the  night  I  heard  it  crawling  in  the 
bag,  so  I  moved  it  from  under  my  head.  It 's  alive. 
I  guess  it  '11  get  to  know  me." 

Again  I  felt  a  strange  shudder  at  the  child's 
words,  and  at  the  eager  look  with  which  her  eyes 
followed  the  gem  as  she  gave  it  into  the  Doctor's 
hands.  Again  we  experienced  the  same  singular 
sensation,  like  shocks  from  an  electric  battery,  in 
passing  it  from  hand  to  hand.  Again  we  fancied 
that  the  colors  deepened  while  Ally  held  it,  and 
that  a  peculiar  iridescent  light  flashed  from  it  when 
A  was  held  near  her  face.  It  was  very  evident  that 
she  grew  more  and  more  excited  while  the  stone 
was  in  motion  in  the  room.  Her  cheeks  grew  red 
and  the  pupils  of  her  eyes  dilated,  and  she  was 
»«stless ;  she  did  not  like  to  have  it  out  of  her  pos 
13 


IQ4  MY  TOURMALINE. 

session  ;  still  she  could  not  hold  it  for  many  min 
utes. 

"  What  does  make  it  pinch  so  ?  "  she  said.  "  Poor 
little  Stonie,  is  that  all  the  way  it  can  speak  ? 
Mother  said  the  wasp  pricked  me  to  say  '  Let  me 
alone  ; '  but  this  does  not  hurt.  I  like  it." 

Mrs.  Allen  looked  uneasy.  "  Does  thee  think, 
Doctor,  it  can  harm  the  child  ?  " 

"  No,"  replied  the  Doctor,  in  a  perplexed  tone. 
"  No,  I  think  not.  If  it  is,  as  it  seems  to  me,  simply 
a  natural  electricity,  it  may  do  good  ;  but  it  is  a 
strange  thing.  I  'd  give  a  good  deal  to  know  what 
it  is." 

Broad  sunbeams  were  resting  on  Ally's  bed  ;  the 
coverlet  was  soon  warm  to  the  touch.  Ally  laid 
the  crystal  carefully  on  one  of  the  white  spaces, 
"  Stonie  does  not  look  pretty  on  the  red  color,"  she 
said.  One  of  the  abutilon  blossoms  had  fallen,  and 
she  was  slowly  tearing  the  bright  striped  bell  into 
strips  and  arranging  them  in  fantastic  patterns  on 
her  breast ;  the  feathery  stamens  also  lay  scattered 
about  like  a  shower  of  golden  threads.  Suddenly 
Ally  cried  out :  — 

"  Oh,  see !  The  flowers  like  Stonie ;  they  fol 
low  him." 

We  all  ran  to  her  bed,  and  stood  transfixed  with 
astonishment  at  the  sight.  Yes,  the  flowers  did  fol 
low  the  stone !  As  Ally  drew  it  slowly  along,  the 
tiny  shreds  of  the  abutilon  petals  and  the  slender 
filaments  of  the  stamens  followed  it.  On  touching 


MY  TO  UX MA  LINE.  195 

it  they  adhered  slightly  to  the  surface,  as  magnet 
ized  objects  to  a  magnet.  "  Is  Stonie  eating 
them?"  said  Ally.  "  Is  that  what  he  lives  on  ?" 
This  persistent  disposition  on  Ally's  part  to  speak 
of  the  stone  as  a  living  and  sentient  thing,  childish 
as  it  was,  and  as  we  all  the  while  knew  it  to  tx,, 
heightened  our  half  superstitious  sense  of  mystery  in 
the  thing.  For  the  first  time  Mrs.  Allen's  face  ex 
perienced  a  shade  of  the  same  feeling. 

"  My  mind  misgives  me,"  she  said,  slowly,  "  that 
it  would  be  well  for  us  to  return  this  mysterious 
visitor  to  the  place  from  which  he  came." 

"  Oh,  no,  no,  mother  dear,"  cried  Ally  ;  "  not  out 
in  the  cold  snow,  my  dear  Stonie,"  and  she  lifted 
it  to  her  lips  and  kissed  it.  With  a  little  cry,  she 
dropped  it  quickly,  exclaiming,  "  He  is  hot  as  fire, 
I  left  him  in  the  sun  too  long  ;  he  pricked  me  to 
say  he  did  not  like  it,"  and  she  picked  the  stone  up 
again  cautiously,  and,  with  a  timid  air,  half  appeal 
ing,  half  resolute,  dropped  it  into  the  little  silk  bag, 
looking  all  the  time  in  Mrs.  Allen's  eyes,  and  say 
ing  "  Please  let  me  keep  him,  mother ;  he  is  such 
a  pretty  Stonie,  and  he  '11  get  to  know  me." 

"  Oh,  yes,  let  her  keep  it,"  said  Dr.  Miller,  "  it 's 
vnly  a  crystal.  We  're  foolish  to  be  so  stirred  up 
about  a  bit  of  stone,  just  because  we  never  saw  any 
thing  like  it  before.  I  dare  say  there  are  a  few 
more  stones  on  the  earth  we  don't  know.  We  're 
nothing  but  ignoramuses, —  at  least  I  am, —  beg 
ging  your  pardon,  Mistress  Allen." 


1 96  MY  TO  URMALINE. 

Mrs.  Allen  smiled.  "  I  know  only  too  well  hov? 
ignorant  I  am  of  all  the  treasures  in  this  wonderful 
world,"  she  said.  "  The  word  that  thee  used  did 
not  stir  any  resentment  in  my  heart,  I  assure  thee. 
But  does  thee  really  think  it  is  safe  for  the  child  to 
have  for  a  plaything  a  stone  which  has  such  strange 
properties  as  this?  And  does  thee  not  think  it 
may  be  a  jewel  of  value  lost  by  some  stranger  on 
the  hill  ?  " 

Dr.  Miller  sprang  to  Ally's  bed  and  bent  over  it. 
In  that  moment,  almost  before  she  had  put  the 
stone  fairly  back  into  the  bag,  the  child  had  fallen 
asleep.  It  seemed  an  unnatural  sleep  to  have 
come  so  suddenly,  and  yet  her  breathing  was 
peaceful,  her  pulse  regular,  and  her  cheeks  were 
less  flushed  than  before. 

"  It 's  the  electricity ;  it  must  be,"  said  the  Doc 
tor,  more  to  himself  than  to  us.  "  No,"  he  con 
tinued,  "  I  do  not  see  any  danger  in  the  thing. 
The  electrical  properties  of  the  stone  must  be 
slight,  and  the  child  will  soon  weary  of  it  as  of  any 
other  toy.  But  the  first  thing  we'll  do,  boys,  when 
the  snow  breaks  up,  '11  be  to  go  to  Black  Ledge, 
and  hunt  up  the  rest,  if  there  are  any  more.  There  s 
something  worth  looking  into.  I  'in  confident  of 
that,  but  I  must  not  spend  my  time  this  way  ?  "  And 
the  Doctor  was  off  almost  without  a  good-by. 

The  Doctor's  prediction  that  Ally  would  soon 
weary  of  the  stone  was  not  fulfilled.  Six  long 
weeks  the  patient  little  creature  lay  on  her  bed,  in 


MY  TOURMALINE.  19* 

the  south  window,  under  the  abutilon  canopy,  and 
the  mysterious  crystal  was  her  inseparable  play 
thing.  When  she  was  not  holding  it  up  and  turn 
ing  it  over  and  over  in  the  light,  she  kept  it  in 
sight,  laying  it  always  on  the  white  spaces  in  the 
coverlet,  and  as  far  as  possible  from  the  scarlet ; 
and  I  observed  that  when  she  was  lying  still,  appar 
ently  in  a  reverie,  her  eyes  were  usually  fastened 
upon  the  stone.  We  grew  familiar  with  its  strange 
electric  and  magnetic  phenomena,  and  even  amused 
ourselves  by  passing  it  rapidly  from  hand  to  hand 
after  it  had  been  heated  by  friction  and  by  the  sun 
light. 

As  our  superstitious  uneasiness  about  it  wore  away, 
our  interest  in  it  diminished,  and  sometimes  for 
weeks  we  did  not  think  of  it,  except  when  Ally 
called  our  attention  to  its  beauty  or  its  mysterious 
powers.  She  still  persisted  in  speaking  of  it  as  if 
it  were  alive,  and  caressing  and  loving  it  as  if  it 
could  reciprocate  all  her  affection. 

"  Stonie  knows  me  now,"  she  would  often  say. 
"  He  does  not  know  any  of  the  rest  of  you  ;  you 
don't  love  him.  He  hardly  ever  pricks  me  now  ; 
he  only  purrs  on  my  fingers." 

It  was  an  odd  thing  that  Mis.  Allen  never  felt 
this  sensation.  Her  nerves  were  so  strong  that  the 
powerful  influence,  whatever  it  might  be,  produced 
no  disturbance  on  the  equipoise  of  her  system, 
Jim  was  more  sensitive  to  it  than  any  one  except 
Ally  herself.  He  knew  instantly  on  approaching 


iqS  MY  TO  UK  MA  LINE. 

Ally  if  she  had  been  playing  with  the  stone.  He 
could  tell  with  his  eyes  shut,  by  touching  her  hands, 
in  which  hand  the  stone  lay ;  and  he  never  entirely 
lost  the  first  feeling  of  fear  and  repulsion  with 
which  we  regarded  the  gem.  He  said  again  arid 
again  to  me  :  — 

"  Will,  I'm  ashamed  of  the  feeling,  but  I  do 
hate  to  have  Ally  keep  that  stone.  I  can't  shake 
off  a  sort  of  presentiment  that  evil  will  some  clay 
come  to  her  through  it.  I  do  wish  it  could  be  lost, 
but  it  is  never  away  from  her  one  second.  At  night 
she  hides  it  under  her  pillow,  and  by  day  she  car 
ries  it  in  her  pocket.  I  do  believe  there  is  a  spell 
about  the  thing." 

"  Well,  it  isn't  a  spell  that  does  the  child  harm, 
anyhow,"  I  always  replied  to  him,  "for  certainly 
never  in  this  world  did  a  child  grow  strong  and  tall 
and  beautiful  faster  than  she  is  growing.  You 
have  it  so  firmly  fixed  in  your  head  that  she  is  n't  a 
mortal  child,  like  other  children,  that  you  can't  see 
anything  connected  with  her  as  it  really  is." 

I  was  not  conscious  of  the  feeling,  but  a  deep- 
rooted  jealousy  of  Jim  was  already  growing  up  in 
my  heart,  and  distorting  my  thoughts  of  both  him 
and  Ally.  Gentle  and  loving  as  she  always  was  to 
every  human  being,  there  was  a  certain  spontaneous, 
exuberant  overflow  of  affection  toward  Jim,  which 
made  her  manner  to  every  one  else  seem  cold  by 
contrast.  I  was  not  sure,  but  it  seemed  to  me  that 
even  dear  Mrs.  Allen  felt  this.  I  sometimes  saw 


MY  TOURMALINE.  199 

her  eyes  rest  upon  the  two  when  they  were  frolick 
ing  together,  with  an  expression  of  pain.  The  day 
came  when  I  understood  what  that  pain  had  meant. 

Long  before  spring  we  had  ceased  to  talk  about 
going  to  Black  Ledge  to  look  for  the  magic  stones, 
but  Ally  never  forgot  it.  One  bright  day  in  April, 
when  the  drops  falling  from  the  eaves  had  melted 
a  little  circle  around  the  roots  of  the  lilac-tree,  and 
brought  to  light  a  few  tiny  pale  green  shoots  of 
grass,  Ally  turned  from  the  window,  and  said  to 
me  :  — 

"Mr.  Will,  see,  there  is  the  ground  again  !  Pretty 
soon  the  snow  will  be  gone,  and  we  can  look  for 
Stonie's  friends.  Poor  Stonie  !  he  would  have  been 
very  lonely  all  winter  if  it  hadn't  been  for  me. 
We  '11  take  him  up  with  us,  and  he  will  show  us  the 
way." 

"  But,  Ally,  how  can  a  stone  show  people  the 
way  ?  That's  a  silly  speech,  little  girl,"  said  I. 

"  No,  Mr.  Will,"  she  answered  gravely.  "  It  is  n't 
silly,  because  it  is  true.  Stonie  won't  show  you, 
because  he  don't  know  you  ;  but  he  will  show  me. 
He  tells  me  a  great  many  things  when  we  are  all 
alone  together,  don't  you,  Stonie  ?  "  And  she  took 
the  little  blue  silk  bag  from  her  pocket  and  laid  it 
against  her  cheek.  As  she  did  so  her  eyes  dilated 
and  her  cheeks  flushed,  and  again  the  uncomforta 
ble  sense  of  something  supernatural  in  the  stone, 
and  in  the  bond  between  Ally  and  it,  swept  over 
me.  "Who  knows  but  Jim  is  right,  after  all!  I 


20O  MY  TOURMALIATE. 

wonder  if  we  should  love  Ally  any  less  if  she  did  n't 
have  that  stone  ?  "  I  said  to  myself,  as  I  pondered 
her  words  and  looks. 

The  thaw  was  rapid  and  general.  Not  for  years 
had  such  a  body  of  snow  disappeared  so  quickly. 
The  river  rose  alarmingly ;  even  little  pools  became 
dangerous.  A  large  part  of  the  village  was  under 
water.  One  feeble  old  man  was  actually  drowned 
at  the  foot  of  his  own  garden,  and  for  a  few  hours 
there  was  great  cause  for  alarm  ;  but  the  waters 
fell  as  fast  as  they  had  risen  ;  a  high  wind  rose  and 
blew  steadily  for  three  days,  and  at  the  end  of  a 
week  the  whole  country  lay  bare  and  dry,  with  a 
tender  green  tint  everywhere  struggling  through 
the  brown. 

Dr.  Miller  had  not  forgotten  the  trip  to  Black 
Ledge.  While  the  freshet  was  at  its  height  he  ran 
in  one  morning  to  say,  "  Boys,  if  this  lasts  we  can 
go  to  Black  Ledge  by  Saturday.  The  snow  '11  be 
all  gone." 

"And  me,  too?"  said  Ally.  "Will  you  take 
me?" 

"  No,  indeed,  Pussy,"  said  the  Doctor.  "  It  will 
be  too  wet  and  muddy." 

"  But  you  can't  find  Stonie's  friends  without  me," 
said  Ally.  "  I  know  you  can't.  Don't  you  know, 
Mr.  Will,  you  could  n't  see  Stonie,  look  all  you 
could,  and  there  he  was  right  in  plain  sight  all  the 
time.  Don't  you  remember  ?  " 

True,  so  it  was.     Again  a  vague  distrust  and  fear 


MY   TOURMALINE.  2OI 

flashed  through  my  mind.  It  had  seemed  to  me  at 
the  time  inexplicable  that,  searching  so  carefully 
and  long,  I  had  not  seen  the  stone.  Ally  con 
tinued  :  "  It  won't  be  of  any  use  for  you  to  go  un 
less  you  take  Stonie,  at  any  rate.  Perhaps  he  will 
toll  you  the  way  if  I  ask  him  to." 

Dr.  Miller  looked  at  Ally  with  a  surprised  face. 

"  What  nonsense  is  this  you  're  talking,  Pussy  ?  " 
he  said. 

"  That  's  just  what  Mr.  Will  said,"  replied  Ally, 
archly,  and  yet  with  a  strange  earnestness  in  her 
tone.  "Nobody  believes  that  Stonie  knows  me 
and  tells  me  things,  but  he  does.  Some  day  you  '11 
all  believe  it." 

"Pshaw  —  what  a  notional  little  woman  it  is,  to 
be  sure,"  laughed  the  Doctor,  patting  her  on  the 
head,  as  he  hurried  out. 

"  Never  mind.  You  '11  see,"  said  Ally  quietly, 
putting  back  into  her  pocket  the  blue  silk  bag 
which  she  had  been  fingering  dreamily  while  she 
talked. 

Saturday  was  clear  and  bright.  We  set  out 
early.  Ally  made  no  request  to  be  taken  with  us, 
but  watched  all  our  movements  with  intense  in 
terest.  I  observed  that  she  had  the  blue  silk  bag 
in  her  hand  and  raised  it  often  to  her  cheek.  She 
bade  us  good-by  very  quietly,  but,  as  we  cleared 
the  gate,  we  heard  her  call,  "  Doctor,  brother  Jim, 
wait  a  minute,"  and  she  came  flying  down  the  walk, 
urith  the  blue  silk  bag  in  her  hand.  "  Here,  Doc- 


202  MY   TOURMALINE. 

tor,"  she  said  "  you  must  take  Stonie.  You  can  t 
find  the  way  without  him.  He  has  told  me  where 
his  friends  are  ;  and  I  have  asked  him  to  tell  you, 
There  are  n't  any  more  of  them  on  the  old  tree- 
root.  You  need  n't  look  there.  Most  of  them  are 
down  deep,  and  you  '11  have  to  dig ;  but  there  are 
some  up  on  the  very  tip-top  of  the  rocks.  I  know 
just  how  they  look  there.  Stonie  showed  me." 

The  Doctor  laughed  and  dropped  the  little  bag 
in  his  pocket,  saying,  "  I  '11  take  good  care  of  your 
Stonie,"  and  Ally  ran  back,  kissing  her  hands  to 
us  all 

"  She  's  a  most  fanciful  child,"  he  said,  as  we 
walked  on ;  "  that  imagination  of  hers  will  give  her 
trouble  some  of  these  days  ;  though  she  's  got  a 
splendid  physique  to  offset  it." 

"  Are  you  sure  it  is  all  her  imagination  about  this 
stone,  sir  ?  "  asked  Jim,  hesitatingly. 

Dr.  Miller  stopped,  turned,  and  looked  Jim 
squarely  in  the  face.  "  God  bless  my  soul,  boy, 
what  else  do  you  suppose  it  is  ?  You  're  as  bad  as 
the  child,  upon  my  word.  They  don't  teach  a  be 
lief  in  witchcraft  at  your  college,  do  they  ?  I  '11  be 
bound  Will  here  don't  believe  any  such  nonsense," 
turning  to  me. 

I  felt  my  face  grow  red,  and  my  answer  was  as 
hesitating  as  Jim's  question. 

"  No,  sir ;  I  don't  believe  it  exactly,  but  it  is  very 
odd  how  Ally—  " 

"  Ha !  ha  !  "  chuckled  the  Doctor.     "  It  is  r't  at 


MY  TOURMALINS.  2O3 

all  odd  how  Ally  —  But  you  two  are  beginning 
rather  young  to  see  through  a  woman's  eyes.  Let 
it  alone,  boys,  let  it  alone,  only  torment  comes  of 
it ; "  and  the  Doctor  fell  into  a  reverie,  such  as  we 
had  often  seen  him  in  before,  and  which  we  knew 
better  than  to  interrupt. 

It  was  a  wet  and  ugly  climb  up  Black  Ledge  that 
morning.  In  the  hollows  of  the  rocks  and  under 
the  giant  oaks  there  still  la>  patches  of  slippery 
snow  and  ice  ;  but  the  air  was  soft  and  balmy,  and 
one  blue  hepatica  welcomed  us.  It  was  growing 
almost  under  the  trunk  of  the  fallen  tree  in  whose 
root  Ally  had  found  the  stone. 

"  Ally  said  it  was  n't  of  any  use  to  look  here," 
said  Jim,  unthinkingly. 

Dr.  Miller  looked  at  him  almost  severely. 

"Youngster,"  says  he,  "aren't  you  a  little 
ashamed  of  yourself  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir,  a  good  deal,"  replied  Jim,  frankly 
enough  to  disarm  the  most  contemptuous  critic. 
"  A  good  deal.  But  I  can't  help  it.  I  do  believe, 
if  we  find  the  stones  at  all,  we  shall  find  them 
where  Ally  said  they  were." 

"  And  I  suppose  you  believe,  too,  that  this 
stone  here  "  —  tapping  his  waistcoat  pocket,  — 
"  told  her  where  its  'friends/  as  she  calls  them, 
were  ? "  said  the  Doctor,  with  kind,  twinkling,  com 
passionate  eyes.  "  Poor  boy  —  if  Ally,  at  ten,  does 
.his  to  your  senses,  what  '11  she  do  to  you  six  years 
hence  ? " 


204  MY  TOURMALINE 

"  Love  me,  I  hope,"  said  Jim,  "  as  well  as  she 
does  now.  She  's  all  I  've  got  in  the  world,  Dr. 
Miller,  and  please  don't  laugh  at  me  any  more. 
You  would  n't  if  you  knew  how  1  love  that  child, 
would  he,  Will  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  I,  pretending  to  laugh.  "  It  's  no 
laughing  matter,  Doctor." 

But  the  words,  "  She  's  all  I  have  got  in  this 
world,"  echoed  strangely  in  my  ears.  Dear,  gen 
erous  Jim  ;  how  little  our  boys'  hearts  could  have 
dreamed  in  that  hour  of  the  barrier  into  which 
those  few  words  were  destined  to  be  built ! 

We  searched  long  around  the  roots  of  the  old 
tree.  I  think  Dr.  Miller  was  determined  to  falsify 
Ally's  prediction  by  finding  the  stones  there. 

"  That  one  stone  could  n't  have  been  all  alone," 
he  said.  "  There's  no  such  thing  in  nature  ;  there 
must  be  more  where  that  came  from." 

"  But,  Dr.  Miller,"  said  I,  "  that  one  was  in  a 
crevice  of  the  roots  ;  it  probably  came  from  deep 
down  in  the  earth,"  and  I  showed  him,  as  nearly 
as  I  could  recollect,  where  the  stone  had  lain.  He 
examined  the  earth  on  the  roots  very  carefully,  and 
we  looked  for  the  cavity  from  which  the  tree  had 
come,  but  there  was  no  trace  of  it.  Probably 
many  years  had  elapsed  since  the  storm  which  up 
rooted  the  old  oak.  "  It  might  have  grown  a  long 
way  farther  up  the  hill  for  all  we  can  tell,"  said  the 
Doctor,  scratching  his  head  and  looking  puzzled. 

At  this  instant  we  heard  loud  shouts  from  Jim 


MY  TOURMALINE.  2O$ 

He  had  spent  very  few  minutes  looking  in  the 
vicinity  of  the  old  tree,  but  had  climbed  rapidly  up 
the  ledge,  and  had  been  out  of  sight  for  some 
time. 

"Oh,  Will!  Will!  Doctor!  Doctor!  Hurry  I" 
he  cried,  in  tones  so  shrill  and  earnest,  that  I 
feared  he  was  in  trouble. 

"  He  's  found  them,  I  do  believe,"  exclaimed  the 
Doctor,  and  we  ran  breathlessly  up  the  steep  and 
slippery  rocks. 

On  the  very  top  of  the  ledge  knelt  Jim, — his 
hands  clasped. 

"  Oh,  look,  look !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  Was  not 
Ally  right  ?  " 

We  stood  still  in  amazement.  Glistening,  spark 
ling  in  the  sun,  there  lay  dozens  of  crystals  as  if 
they  had  been  just  thrown  down  by  some  careless 
hand. 

"  I  have  n't  touched  one,"  said  Jim  ;  "I  did  n't 
dare  to." 

Dr.  Miller  did  not  speak  for  some  moments. 
Then  he  cried  out :  — 

"  By  Jove,  I  'd  like  to  know  whether  we'  re  in 
Maine  or  in  Brazil !  It  looks  as  if  we  'd  been  liv 
ing  at  the  foot  of  an  emerald  mine  all  our  days, 
and  might  have  gone  on  living  so  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  that  blessed  child.  However,  somebody 
nad  to  find  it  out  sooner  or  later.  Pitch  in,  boys  y 
pitch  in,  we  '11  get  all  we  can  this  trip.  The  whole 
town  '11  be  up  here  to-morrow,  for  I  take  it  we 


206  MY  TOURMALINE. 

haven't  got  any  right  to  keep  it  to  ourselves. 
Nobody  's  ever  thought  of  owning  Black  Ledge. 
I  guess  my  line  comes  up  higher  'n  anybody  's  \ 
but  I  'in  a  good  way  down  yonder ;  this  is  the 
town's  property  up  here." 

Eagerly,  silently,  with  an  undercurrent  of  con 
sciousness  that  we  were  coming  very  close  to  some 
strange  secret  of  nature,  we  gathered  up  the  crys 
tals.  There  were  many  of  great  beauty,  but  none 
so  fine  as  the  first-found  one,  Ally's  "  Stonie." 
Many  of  them  were  broken  ;  some  looked  as  if 
they  had  crumbled  slowly  into  fragments ;  but  all 
were  transparent,  brilliant,  and  of  colors  of  in 
effable  beauty,  —  dark  green,  light  green,  pink, 
yellow,  blue,  rose-red  and  white. 

It  seemed  utterly  incredible  that  such  treasures 
could  long  have  been  lying  exposed  on  this  hill-top. 

"  I  don't  suppose  there  are  many  villages  where 
it  could  have  happened,"  said  Dr.  Miller,  "  but 
there  is  n't  a  man  or  woman  in  this  town  that 
would  ever  think  of  walking  a  rod  for  pleasure,  ex 
cept  me,  and  I  'm  too  busy  always  to  get  so  far 
from  home  's  this.  I  suppose  I  've  looked  up  at 
this  Black  Ledge  a  hundred  times  and  resolved  to 
come  up  here  at  sunset  some  night,  but  I  never 
have.  I  guess  I  'm  glad  I  did  n't.  It  's  worth  a 
good  deal  more  to  come  on  it  this  way,  with  you 
boys  along,  and  that  Ally  down  below  waiting." 

"  Oh,  what  will  she  say  ?  What  will  she  say  ?  * 
exclaimed  I. 


MY  TOURMALINE.  2O/ 

"  She  won't  be  surprised,"  said  Jim.  "  She  's 
known  it  all  winter.  She  told  me  a  long  time  ago 
that  there  were  ever  so  many  up  here ;  that  Stonie 
said  so.  And  she  says  :  '  You  know  that  the  most 
of  them  are  down  deep ; '  that  we  'd  only  find  a 
few  on  the  top." 

"  So  she  did ;  so  she  did,"  said  the  Doctor,  un 
conscious  of  the  amount  of  confidence  in  Ally  be 
trayed  by  his  reply.  "  It  's  odd  how  the  child 
knew ;  but  that  's  the  way  it  must  be.  These 
crystals  have  been  formed  deep  down  among  these 
rock.  I  don't  know  what  has  laid  them  bare.  It 
takes  ages  for  rocks  to  decompose,  but  this  looks 
like  it.  We  '11  dig  down  just  at  the  base  of  these 
biggest  rocks.  This  soil  has  washed  down  round 
them." 

In  our  first  wonder  and  delight  at  the  crystals, 
we  had  scarcely  observed  the  rocks ;  but  in  looking 
more  closely,  we  found  that  they,  too,  were  of  rare 
beauty.  There  were  great  masses  of  a  rose-red 
stone,  magnificent  rocks  of  quartz,  and  shining  sur 
faces  of  mica.  On  the  cold  gray  of  the  granite 
ledge  these  glittering  colors  stood  out  in  sharp  re 
lief,  and  produced  an  effect  of  design  in  spite  of  all 
the  chaotic  confusion. 

"  I  believe  the  gods  began  a  temple  here  once/* 
said  Jim,  "  and  left  their  jewels  behind  them." 

"Quit  Maine  for  want  of  worshipers,"  chuckled 
the  Doctor,  as  he  tugged  away  at  his  digging.  Sud 
denly  he  threw  down  his  spade,  fell  on  his  knees 


208  MY  TOURMALINE. 

and  began  fumbling  in  the  loose  earth  with  his 
fingers. 

More  crystals  !  We  looked  on  in  speechless  as 
tonishment  The  cavity  into  which  his  spade  had 
broken  was  some  two  feet  deep.  The  bottom  was 
filled  with  sand,  and  loose  in  this  sand,  as  if  they 
had  been  packed  in  it  for  safe  keeping,  lay  many 
crystals  of  the  finest  colors  we  had  yet  seen.  Their 
shapes  were  not  perfect,  and  many  of  them  were 
cracked  or  fissured  as  if  they  had  been  at  some 
time  exposed  to  the  grinding  of  other  stones  upon 
them,  but  the  colors  were  superb.  Carefully  we 
sifted  the  cavity  to  the  very  bottom,  not  leaving  a 
single  fragment  of  the  gems  in  it.  By  this  time 
the  sun  was  well  down  in  the  western  sky. 

"  We  really  must  go  home,  boys,"  said  the  Doc 
tor;  "they  will  be  anxious  about  us,  and  I  am 
hungry ;  and  you  ought  to  be,  though  you  are  not," 
he  added,  scanning  our  excited  faces  with  a  pro 
fessional  eye. 

Hungry  !  —  we  had  no  more  thought  of  hunger 
than  we  should  have  in  Aladdin's  palace.  Our  eyes 
were  so  feasted  that  the  whole  body  seemed  fed. 
It  was  simply  impossible  to  carry  down  the  ledge 
all  the  crystals  and  crystal-bearing  fragments  of 
rock  we  had  collected.  We  hid  some  of  the  least 
beautiful  specimen^  under  the  old  tree-root,  and  we 
were  then  so  heavily  burdened  that  the  walk  home 
was  a  serious  toil.  Ally  was  at  the  window  watch- 
Jig  for  us.  At  the  first  sight  of  our  overloaded 


MY  TOURMALINE.  209 

arms  she  clapped  her  hands  and  bounded  to  open 
the  door. 

"  Oh,  I  'm  so  glad,  so  glad  !  "  she  exclaimed, 
jumping  up  and  down,  and  springing  first  to  one, 
then  to  another.  "  I  thought  Stonie  would  help 
you." 

"You  foolish  Pussy,"  exclaimed  Dr.  Miller, 
"  we  've  got  a  hundred  stones  just  like  him." 

"No,"  said  Ally,  gravely,  "you  have  not  got  any 
just  like  him.  There  is  not  one  among  them  all 
just  like  him." 

"  By  Jove,  she  's  right,"  muttered  the  Doctor,  as 
we  slowly  set  down  our  loads  ;  "  there  isn't  one 
just  like  hers." 

"  I  told  you  so.  I  said  she  knew  all  about  them," 
whispered  Jim,  under  his  breath. 

We  spent  the  whole  evening  in  sorting  and  ar 
ranging  the  stones ;  they  seemed  more  and  more 
beautiful  the  more  we  studied  them.  There  were 
no  two  alike  ;  very  few  of  them  were  perfect  in 
shape,  but  they  were  all  of  superb  colors.  There 
was  not  one,  however,  which  was  so  large,  so  regu 
larly  shaped  and  beautifully  tinted  as  Ally's  Stonie. 
As  we  held  up  crystal  after  crystal,  exclaiming, 
"  This  is  a  perfect  one  !  "  "  Oh,  this  is  the  most 
beautiful  of  all ! "  Ally  would  place  hers  by  the  side 
of  it,  and  without  saying  one  word,  look  an  arch  in 
terrogation.  When  the  last  crystal  was  laid  in  its 
p.ace,  she  said,  quietly  :  — 
14 


2IO  MY  TOURMALINE. 

"  Stonie  is  king.  These  are  his  people.  But 
there  are  many  more  in  the  hill." 

"  How  does  thee  know,  dear  ? "  asked  Mrs. 
Allen.  "  Can  thee  tell  me  how  it  is  ?  " 

"  Stonie  tells  me,  mother,"  replied  Ally. 

"  But  how  does  he  tell  thee  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Allen, 
humoring  the  child's  fancy  by  speaking  of  the  stone 
as  she  herself  did.  "  He  does  not  speak  in  words. 
He  makes  no  sound." 

Ally  looked  perplexed.  "  No,"  sho  said,  slowly, 
"  I  know  that.  But  he  likes  me.  He  makes  me 
see." 

This  was  all  the  explanation  she  could  ever  give 
of  the  way  in  which  she  received  impressions  by 
means  of  the  magnetic  stone —  "  He  makes  me 
see."  The  next  morning  we  inclosed  a  few  of  the 
smaller  crystals  in  a  letter  and  sent  them  to  the 
Professor  of  Geology  in  our  college,  giving  him  a 
full  account  of  the  crystals,  and  of  the  locality 
where  we  had  found  them. 

How  anxiously  we  awaited  his  reply.  Our  brains 
teemed  with  the  wildest  hopes  and  projects ;  even 
Dr.  Miller  built  air-castles,  in  which  rubies  and 
emeralds  made  walls  and  floors.  The  whole  village 
was  in  a  ferment  of  excitement.  Black  Ledge 
swarmed  thick  with  eager  crystal  hunters.  Many 
beautiful  specimens  were  found,  but  no  more  of  the 
perfectly  formed  crystals  like  ours.  At  last  the 
tetter  came.  Jim  and  I  ran  with  it  to  Dr.  Miller's 


MY  TOURMALINE.  211 

office,  and  we  read  it  together.  It  was  long  and 
full. 

Our  crystals  were  no*  emeralds,  not  rubies.  They 
were  tourmalines.  The  mineral  was  a  rare  one. 
Early  in  the  eighteenth  century,  some  experiments 
had  been  made  before  the  French  Academy,  show 
ing  the  wonderful  electric  properties  of  the  stone, 
and  for  a  few  years  considerable  interest  had  been 
taken  in  the  subject.  But,  owing  to  the  scarcity 
of  the  gems,  the  investigations  had  not  been  con 
tinued,  and  even  at  the  present  day  the  stone  was 
almost  unknown,  except  to  professional  mineralo 
gists. 

Commercially,  the  gem  had  no  fixed  value.  A 
superb  group  of  them,  which  had  been  presented 
to  the  British  Ambassador  to  the  Burmese  Empire, 
in  1795,  and  was  now  in  the  British  Museum,  had 
been  valued  at  one  thousand  pounds  sterling.  The 
deep  red  variety,  when  clear  and  flawless,  would 
command  the  price  of  rubies.  It  had  been  sur^ 
mised  that  the  famous  ruby  in  one  of  the  diadems 
of  the  Russian  crown  jewels  was  a  species  of  tour 
maline.  The  Professor  concluded  his  kind  letter 
by  heartily  congratulating  us  on  our  discovery,  and 
thanking  us,  in  the  name  of  the  college,  for  the 
specimens  we  had  sent.  He  also  offered  to  put  us 
in  communication  with  some  amateur  collectors  in 
Europe,  if  we  wished  to  dispose  of  the  remaining 
crystals.  As  these  were  the  only  ones  which  had 
been  discovered  in  America,  he  believed  that  Ihey 
would  be  largely  sought  after. 


212  MY  TOURMALINE. 

"Well,  they're  not  real  jewels  after  all,  then/' 
said  the  Doctor,  drawing  a  long  sigh.  "  I  did  hope 
they  'd  turn  out  to  be  a  fortune  for  somebody.  But 
I  don't  care  to  dabble  with  the  amateur  collectors 
the  Professor  talks  about.  I  Ve  had  one  such  man 
on  my  farm  already  after  bird  tracks.  I  never  made 
anything  out  of  him.  You  can  have  all  my  share, 
boys ;  but  I  think  you  'd  better  send  some  of  the 
very  handsomest  specimens  to  the  college,  don't 
you?  Those  little  fellows  we  put  in  the  letter 
weren  't  anything.  If  the  British  Museum  has  got 
one  five-thousand  dollar  specimen,  't  aint  anyways 
likely  they  want  another.  It 's  easy  enough,  though. 
to  '  value  '  a  thing  at  five  thousand  dollars,  when  a 
grand  Mogul  of  the  Burmese  Empire's  given  it  to 
you  for  nothing.  I  can  set  one  of  these  big  quartz 
rocks  with  the  green  crystals  in  it  up  on  my  mantel 
piece  and  *  value '  it  at  five  thousand  dollars,  too, 
any  day." 

We  were  crestfallen  and  disappointed;  but  the 
romance  remained,  though  the  hopes  of  pecuniary 
gain  had  departed.  There  was  something  in  the 
very  word  tourmalines,  Jim  said,  which  went  far 
to  reconcile  him  to  their  not  being  rubies,  and  we 
felt  somehow  linked  to  the  past  century,  to  the 
French  Academy,  and  to  the  Russian  Empire, — we 
boys  in  the  heart  of  Maine  who  could  amuse  our- 
lelves  of  an  evening  with  handfuls  of  gems  such  as 
savants  had  vainly  desired  to  possess  and  Em 
cresses  had  worn. 


MY  TOURMALINE.  213 

When  we  read  the  letter  aloud  at  home,  Mrs. 
Allen  looked  at  her  husband  with  so  significant  an 
expression,  and  he  returned  it  with  one  so  full  of 
earnest  meaning,  that  I  exclaimed :  — 

"  Dear  Dominie,  dear  Mrs.  Allen,  what  is  it  ?  " 

Mrs.  Allen  did  not  speak.  The  Dominie  glanced 
a:  her  before  replying.  Then  he  said  :  — 

"  My  son,  our  hearts  were  much  troubled  at  the 
new  thoughts  which  these  jewels  had  brought  into 
the  life  of  our  household.  We  do  not  desire  money 
for  ourselves ;  we  fear  it  for  those  we  love.  We 
must  grieve  that  your  hopes  are  cast  down,  but  we 
cannot  help  being  glad  that  the  chief  mission  of  the 
wonderful  stones  is,  after  all,  nothing  more  than  to 
give  us  all  one  farther  glimpse  into  the  wonders  of 
God's  house  in  which  we  dwell." 

Jim  sprang  from  his  seat,  went  to  the  Dominie, 
took  his  hand  reverently  in  both  of  his,  and  pressed 
it  without  speaking.  The  Dominie's  words  had 
gone  to  the  very  bottom  of  his  heart. 

"God  bless  you,  my  son,"  said  the  Dominie. 
"  When  your  hair  is  as  white  as  mine  you  will  think 
as  I  think." 

"  I  do  now,  sir,"  said  Jim,  in  a  low  voice,  "  and  I 
believe  I  should  think  the  same  if  I  had  not  been 
rich." 

"  Much  you  can  tell  about  that,  old  fellow,"  said 
I.  "  Wait  till  you  Ve  had  to  go  without  half  the 
ihings  you  wanted  for  years  and  years.  You're 
'ust  like  a  blind  man  talking  about  colors." 


214  MY  TOURMALINE. 

"  The  Dominie  and  mother  have  had  to  go  with 
out  most  things  they  wanted,"  said  Jim,  impul 
sively. 

The  two  aged  lovers  again  exchanged  glances. 
This  time  it  was  Mrs.  Allen  who  spoke. 

"  Nay,  not  so.  We  have  not  gone  without  the 
things  we  have  not  had.  But  that  is  something 
thee  cannot  understand  yet,"  and  the  placid,  tender 
eyes  turned  to  Ally  involuntarily. 

Ally  had  listened  with  absorbed  interest  to  the 
reading  of  the  letter  and  to  the  conversation  which 
followed.  Her  face  showed  that  not  one  of  the 
ideas  escaped  her  comprehension.  The  mental 
growth  of  this  child  in  the  last  six  months  had 
been  simply  wonderful.  In  technical  and  text-book 
knowledge  she  was  still  far  behind  most  children 
of  her  age,  and  must,  of  course,  continue  to  be  so 
for  a  long  time.  The  lost  years  of  her  sad,  un 
trained  childhood  could  not  easily  be  made  up. 
But,  on  the  other  hand,  every  moment  of  her  life 
now  contained  true  education;  and  her  suscepti 
bility  to  influence  was  so  exquisite  that  each  new 
germ  of  thought  sprang  up  quickly,  bearing  its 
hundred  fold.  Except  for  the  innate  gayety  of  her 
temperament,  and  for  her  fine  English  physique, 
she  would  have  been  in  danger  of  becoming  an  in 
troverted  and  too  thoughtful  child.  But  the  mirth 
ful  heart  and  the  abounding  animal  life  saved  her. 

As  Mrs.  Allen  finished  speaking,  Ally  came 
slowly  to  the  table,  drawing  the  blue  silk  bag  from 
her  pocket. 


MY  TOURMALINE.  21 5 

"  I  would  like  to  send  Stonie  to  the  gentleman 
ivho  wrote  that  letter.  Stonie  is  king,  and  ought  to 
go,"  she  said. 

"Can  you  spare  Stonie?"  asked  Jim,  tenderly. 
"You  will  miss  him  very  much,  little  one." 

"  I  can  have  another  all  for  my  own,  can't  I  ?  " 
said  Ally,  anxiously. 

"  Why,  yes,  pet,  a  dozen,  if  you  want  them,"  re 
plied  Jim  ;  "but  they  won't  be  like  Stonie.  There 
isn  't  one  just  like  him." 

"I  know  that,"  said  Ally.  "There  isn't  one  in 
all  the  hill  just  like  him.  But  he  is  king ;  he  ought 
to  go,  and  he  wants  to  go,  too.  He  has  told  me 
so." 

With  a  tender,  lingering  touch  she  laid  the  be 
loved  crystal  down  on  the  paper  wliere  we  had 
already  placed  some  of  the  specimens  to  be  sent 
to  the  Professor.  It  was,  indeed,  king  of  them 
all.  Both  ends  of  the  crystal  were  perfectly  formed. 
It  was  transparent  and  flawless  throughout.  Two 
thirds  of  its  length  were  vivid  green  ;  the  other 
third  rose-pink.  At  the  green  summit  was  a  layer 
of  solid  opaque  white,  looking  like  a  cap,  though 
only  a  line  wide.  In  no  other  specimen  did  we  see 
any  trace  of  such  a  formation  of  white. 

"That  is  Stonie's  snow  crown,"  said  Ally,  laying 
her  finger  on  the  white  end  of  the  crystal.  "  You 
see  none  of  the  rest  have  crowns." 

She  found  it  hard  to  make  a  choice.  She  tested 
tvery  stone  by  laying  it  against  her  cheek. 


2l6  MY  TOURMALINE. 

"  I  want  one  with  a  voice  like  Stonie,"  she  said. 

We  were  so  accustomed  now  to  this  strange  man 
ner  of  speaking  of  the  stone  that  we  treated  it 
merely  as  a  child's  fancy  for  thinking  a  toy  alive. 
But  there  was  much  more  in  it  than  we  knew.  At 
last  she  made  her  selection,  —  two  of  the  longest  and 
slenderest  crystals,  of  precisely  the  same  length, 
one  solid  green,  the  other  green  and  red. 

"  Are  these  too  nice  for  me  to  have  ?  "  she  asked 
timidly.  "  They  are  the  best  of  all  you  have." 

"You  generous  pussy,"  exclaimed  Dr.  Miller, 
"  as  if  you  had  n't  given  us  the  very  gem  of  the 
whole." 

"  Oh,  Stonie  was  n't  really  mine  !  —  only  to  keep 
for  a  little  while,"  said  Ally.  "  He  was  king." 

The  next  day  Dr.  Miller  was  to  set  out  on  a  long 
journey  to  the  West,  and  he  proposed  to  deliver 
our  precious  package  of  tourmalines,  with  his  own 
hands,  to  the  Professor. 

I  'd  like  to  tell  him,  too,  about  you  boys,"  he 
said,  roguishly.  "  If  I  report  all  your  misconduct 
faithfully,  he  '11  get  your  sentence  extended  another 
six  months." 

"  Oh,  if  he  only  would ! "  we  both  exclaimed. 
"  We  do  hate  to  go  away." 

The  time  was  very  near  —  only  four  weeks  more. 
We  could  not  bear  to  hear  any  one  mention  the 
days  of  the  month.  They  sounded  in  our  ears  like 
the  notes  of  a  clock  striking  hour  after  hour  of  a 
happy  day.  Oh,  the  marvel  of  this  thing  which  we 


MY  TOURMALIN'S.  21 J 

rail  time  !  —  which  is,  and  which  is  not ;  a  moment 
of  which  can  seem  like  an  eternity  of  pain  !  an  eter 
nity  of  which  can  seem  too  short  for  a  moment  of 
joy? 

Some  weeks  after  Dr.  Miller's  departure  I  ob 
served,  one  morning  at  breakfast,  that  Ally  was 
unusually  grave. 

"  What  is  it  Ally  ?  What  are  you  thinking  about  ?  " 
said  I. 

"  Stonie,"  she  replied,  in  a  sad  voice. 

"  Do  you  want  him  back  ?  I  was  afraid  you 
would, "  said  Jim 

"  Oh,  no,  brother  Jim.  It  is  n't  that ; "  and  the 
child's  lip  trembled. 

"  What  is  it,  then  ?  Do  tell  me,  dear,"  ex 
claimed  Jim,  his  face  full  of  trouble,  as  it  always 
was  at  sight  of  an  instant's  unhappiness  on  Ally's. 

"  I  can't,"  said  Ally ;  "  I  don't  know.  It 's 
Stonie.  When  will  Dr.  Miller  come  home  ?  " 

"  Why,  not  for  three  weeks  yet,  Ally,"  replied 
Jim;  "but  he  hasn't  got  Stonie  now.  Stonie's 
safe  in  a  great  big  box  on  high  legs,  with  a  glass 
cover  to  it,  by  this  time."  And  he  tried  to  divert 
her  mind  by  telling  her  about  the  college  cabinets. 
She  listened  absently,  and  at  last  shaking  her  head, 
and  saying,  "  Stonie  is  n't  there,"  she  slipped  from 
Jim's  lap  and  walked  slowly  away. 

That  night  there  came  a  letter  to  Jim  in  a  hand 
writing  he  did  not  know.  He  glanced  at  the  sig 
nature,  and  exclaimed :  — 


218  MY  TOURMALINE. 

"  Oh,  the  good  Doctor  !  He's  written  to  tell  us 
about  the  tourmalines  !  " 

As  he  read  the  letter  his  face  lengthened.  I  did 
not  interrupt  him  with  any  question,  but  I  said  to 
myself :  — 

"  The  tourmalines  are  lost,  and  Ally  knew  it 
this  morning.  I  wish  we  'd  never  heard  of  the 
things,  anyhow.  They  're  bewitched.  " 

Presently  he  threw  the  letter  to  me,  saying, 
"  Read  that,  Will.  I  don't  care  about  the  con 
founded  stones,  but  I  'd  rather  run  a  gauntlet  of 
wild  Indians  than  tell  Ally.  Hang  the  thing!  I 
wish  we  'd  never  seen  Black  Ledge." 

Dr.  Miller's  letter  was  highly  characteristic  :  — 

"  DEAR  BOYS  :  I  may  as  well  out  with  it.  Your  — 
my  —  Ally's  —  all  the  tourmalines  are  lost.  I  don't 
know  but  the  Dominie  was  right,  after  all.  Maybe 
they  are  used  for  gates  in  heaven,  and  angelic  archi 
tects  lay  violent  hands  on  them  whenever  they  find 
them.  The  worst  of  it  is,  that  I  can't  swear  that  it 
is  n't  my  fault.  The  beastly  stage  driver  that  we 
rode  with  day  before  yesterday  upset  his  stage  just 
before  dark,  and  nearly  broke  all  our  necks.  There 
was  a  woman  with  a  little  boy  in  it,  and  the  child's 
leg  was  broken,  and  I  was  up  all  night  with  them  \ 
and  I  '11  be  hanged  if  I  ever  thought  once  of  the 
package  of  tourmalines  till  late  the  next  day.  I 
had  it  in  my  inside  pocket,  and  felt  of  it  about  once 
ai  an  hour  or  so  up  to  that  time.  I  spent  most  of 


MY  TOURMALINE.  2 19 

yesterday  ransacking  the  bushes  and  sand  where  we 
tipped  over,  and  questioning  everybody,  but  it 's  no 
use  ;  the  thing  's  gone,  and  I  '11  have  to  push  on  to 
morrow.  I  hate  to  leave  this  woman  with  her  boy 
worse  than  I  ever  hated  to  do  anything.  The  child 
can't  be  stirred  for  three  months,  and  they  're  as 
poor  as  the  dogs.  You  can  tell  Ally  about  this  lit 
tle  boy  and  his  broken  leg,  and  that  '11  divert  her 
from  Stonie.  Don't  blame  me  any  more  than  you 
can  help,  boys ;  I  'm  cut  up  enough  about  it,  any 
how.  I  expect  you  thought  I  was  old  enough  to  be 
trusted.  DAVID  MILLER. 

"  P.  S.  I'm  ashamed  of  myself  for  thinking  such 
a  thing,  but  I  can't  get  it  out  of  my  head  that  Caleb 
Bunker  has  got  the  tourmalines.  He  sat  next  me 
in  the  stage,  and  he  has  been  like  a  man  possessed 
about  them  from  the  very  first;  but,  of  course,  I 
can't  ever  say  a  word  to  him,  and  I  Ve  no  business 
to  you.  He  was  terribly  officious  in  helping  me 
look  after  them  yesterday  morning,  and  all  of  a 
sudden  he  disappeared.  If  he  got  them  I  shall  find 
it  out  some  day,  for  he  's  such  a  fool.  D.  M.  " 

To  our  great  relief  Ally  took  the  news  of  the  loss 
of  "  Stonie  "  very  quietly.  She  was  prepared  for  it. 

"  I  knew  something  had  happened,"  she  said, 
"  but  it  is  no  matter.  Stonie  will  be  king,  you  know, 
wherever  he  is.  I  dare  say  he  did  not  want  to  be 
shut  up  in  that  box  you  told  me  about." 


220  MY  TOURMALINE. 

When  we  were  alone  Mrs.  Allen  said  quietl}  to 
Jim  : — 

"  I  am  very  glad  thee  was  discreet  enough  not  to 
read  before  the  child  the  Doctor's  suspicions  of 
Mr.  Bunker.  She  has  gratitude  to  him  and  Mrs. 
Bunker,  and  I  would  be  sorry  to  have  it  disturbed, 
I  fear  that  the  Doctor  is  right.  There  was  all  the 
essence  of  dishonesty  in  the  manner  in  which  he 
spent  thy  hundred  dollars  for  Ally." 

Our  sorrow  at  the  loss  of  the  tourmalines  was 
soon  swallowed  up  in  our  grief  at  the  near  prospect 
of  going  back  to  college.  To  leave  Ally  and  Mrs. 
Allen  and  the  Dominie  was  harder  to  me  than  it  had 
ever  been  to  leave  my  own  home ;  and,  as  for  Jim, 
poor  boy,  it  was  the  first  home  he  had  ever  known. 

"  If  I  were  n't  ashamed,  Will,"  he  said,  "  I  'd 
quit  college  and  turn  my  back  on  the  world  and 
settle  down  here  with  Dominie." 

"  What  to  do,  Jim  ?  "  said  I.  "  Study  and  hunt, 
and  teach  Ally  till  she 's  old  enough  for  me  to  take 
her  to  Europe,  replied  he  with  kindling  face.  "  I 
believe  I  'd  know  more  at  the  end  of  six  years  that 
way  than  I  will  now.  College  is  an  infernal  hum 
bug,  Will,  and  you  know  it  as  well  as  I  do. 
Have  n't  we  learnt  more  in  these  six  months  with 
Dominie  than  in  all  the  rest  of  our  lives  put  together  ? 
\nyhow,  I  'm  thankful  Ally's  got  such  a  home. 
Blessed  little  angel,  how  could  I  ever  have  thought 
of  her  being  marched  up  and  down  the  streets  in 
tfiose  processions  of  boarding-school  girls,  and 


TOURMALTNE.  221 

learning  to  flirt  with  the  students.  It  makes  me 
feel  like  knocking  these  country  fellows  down  now 
whenever  I  see  them  looking  at  her,  and  I  don't 
know  what  I  'd  do  with  her  at  college." 

"  Break  a  dozen  fellow's  heads  every  term,  I  ex 
pect,  old  boy,  —  what  with  the  ones  that  made  love 
to  her,  and  the  ones  that  chaffed  you  about  her," 
laughed  I. 

"Chaffed  me  about  Ally!"  exclaimed  Jim. 
"  What  do  you  mean,  Will  ?  Who  ever  heard  of  a 
man  being  chaffed  about  his  sister  ?  " 

"  Nobody,"  said  I  satirically  ;  "  but  Ally  hap 
pens  not  to  be  your  sister." 

"  Will,  it 's  just  the  same  as  if  my  father  and 
mother  had  adopted  her  instead  of  me  ;  exactly  the 
same.  She  is  my  sister,  I  tell  you,"  said  Jim  em 
phatically. 

"  There  is  n't  any  same  as  brother  about  kisses, " 
came  into  my  head,  but  I  forebore  to  quote  the 
words.  My  heart  was  already  sorer  than  I  knew 
how  to  explain,  by  reason  of  this  little  maiden's  ex 
clusive  love  for  her  brother  Jim. 

The  dreaded  day  came  swiftly,  as  only  dreaded 
days  can ;  it  was  a  sunny  May  morning.  To  go 
away  by  stage  from  a  home  one  sorrows  to  leave 
is  infinitely  harder  than  to  go  in  any  other  way. 
There  is  such  a  mockery  of  good  cheer,  of  a  pleas 
ure  drive,  in  the  prancing  of  the  horses  eager  to  be 
off.  There  is  such  a  refinement  of  cruelty  in  the 
Composure  of  the  driver,  waiting  wlip  in  hand  for 


222  MY  TOURMALINE. 

you  to  decide  for  yourself  when  the  last  words  have 
been  said,  the  last  kiss  taken.  There  is  such  a 
prolongation  of  the  pain  of  last  looks,  as  at  turn  af 
ter  turn  of  the  winding  road  you  discover  that  you 
can  still  see  the  dear  forms  on  the  doorstep,  or 
the  gleam  of  the  home  through  the  trees.  The  au 
thoritative  "  All  aboard  "  of  the  conductor,  and  the 
pitiless  shriek  of  the  steam-engine  at  the  railway 
station,  are  mercies  for  those  who  find  it  hard  to 
part.  All  this  I  thought  as  we  rode  away  from  the 
beloved  parsonage,  looking  back  and  back  again 
between  the  pink  apple-tree  tops  to  the  group  of 
loved  ones  in  the  door-way.  The  parting  had  been 
singularly  brief  and  quiet.  Mrs.  Allen's  placid 
brown  eyes  were  full  of  tears,  but  her  last  words 
were  simply,  to  both  Jim  and  me  :  "  Thee  will 
write,  thee  will  write  often  ; "  and  the  Dominie's 
voice  shook  a  little  as  he  said,  "  God  keep  you,  my 
boys.  Remember  that  this  is  your  home  always." 

Ally  spoke  no  word  ;  she  kissed  fiiiit  me,  then 
Jim,  with  a  swift  kiss  quite  unlike  her  usual  cling 
ing,  loving  kisses,  and  then  turned  her  head  away 
and  hid  it  in  the  lilac  boughs.  The  clusters  of 
purple  flowers  bent  down  and  rested  on  her  golden 
Hair  as  if  to  soothe  her.  All  I  could  see  of  her  face 
was  the  patient,  sweet  mouth,  which  was  firmer 
shut  than  usual. 

And  so  we  went  back  into  the  world  again  :  the 
city,  the  college,  the  men,  the  women,  all  seemed 
unspeakably  strange,  and  the  strangeness  did  not 


MY  TOURMALINE.  22$ 

wear  off.  For  weeks  our  feeling  was  not  so  much 
one  of  homesickness  as  of  bewilderment.  No 
foreigners  in  a  strange  land  ever  found  the  atmos 
phere  of  their  lives  newer,  more  inharmonious.  The 
very  speech  jarred  on  our  ears.  For  six  months 
we  had  heard  but  three  voices,  and  those  singularly 
low,  sweet,  rich. 

"  Oh,  Will,  is  this  the  same  language  they  used 
to  speak  at  the  Dominie's  ?  "  exclaimed  Jim,  in  the 
middle  of  our  first  breakfast  at  our  boarding-house  ; 
"  I  can't  stand  it !  It  is  like  jews-harps.  It  never 
sounded  like  this  before.  " 

"  How  have  you  ever  made  out  to  live  through 
the  winter  in  that  outlandish  place,  Mr.  Ordway  ?  " 
at  this  instant  called  our  spinster  landlady  in  shrill 
tones  from  her  high  seat  at  the  head  of  the  table  ; 
"  I  assure  you  we  have  all  sympathized  with  you 
deeply." 

Jim's  look  of  surprise  was  almost  an  angry  stare. 

"  I  was  never  so  happy  in  my  life,  madam,"  he 
retorted,  "  and  I  assure  you  this  place  is  the  out 
landish  one  and  not  that !  " 

Significant  looks  were  exchanged  among  the 
boys  at  this  outbreak.  "  Oh,  Jim,  be  quiet,"  I 
whispered  ;  "  the  boys  will  chaff  you  to  death  if  you 
make  such  speeches." 

"  Yes,  I  'm  a  fool,  Will,"  he  answered,  under  his 
breath,  and  then,  resuming  his  more  courteous  tone, 
he  endeavored  to  soothe  the  ancient  maiden's  re 
sentment  and  disarm  suspicion  by  a  graphic  ao 


224  MY  TOURMALINE. 

count  of  the  beauty  of  the  winter  in  northern 
Maine,  and  of  the  rare  characters  we  had  found  in 
Parson  Allen  and  his  wife. 

But  the  mischief  was  done.  College  boys  do  not 
easily  lose  sight  of  the  clew  to  a  possible  joke,  and 
the  secret  of  Jim  Ordway's  attachment  to  Maine 
was  the  staple  of  current  banter  for  months.  I 
was  not  there  long  to  help  poor  Jim  bear  and 
baffle  it.  In  the  third  week  of  the  term  I  was 
called  home  by  the  sudden  death  of  my  father. 
His  business  was  left  in  disastrous  confusion,  and 
the  only  chance  of  saving  the  property  seemed  to 
lie  in  my  giving  up  my  college  education  and  going 
into  the  counting-house.  It  was  a  severe  test  for  a 
boy  eighteen  years  old,  but  I  never  regretted  that 
it  devolved  upon  me.  I  was  better  suited  for  a 
business  life  than  for  any  other,  and  the  four  years 
of  college  would  not  have  been  sufficient  help  to  me 
in  it  to  have  compensated  for  the  delay.  Here, 
therefore,  the  currents  of  life  divided  me  from  Jim. 
After  four  years  —  three  at  school  and  one  at  col 
lege —  in  which  we  had  lived  like  brothers,  we 
were  now  thrown  widely  apart. 

The  separation  was  much  harder  to  Jim  than  to 
me.  As  I  said  in  the  beginning  of  my  story,  I  ha\e 
always  wondered  why  I  did  not  love  him  better. 
His  idealistic,  dreamy,  poetic,  impulsive  nature  had 
freat  fascination  for  me,  but  with  the  fascination 
was  mingled  a  certain  impatience,  almost  scorn,  of 
his  lack  of  practicality,  and  an  element  of  pity 


MY  TOURMALINE.  22$ 

which  is  fatal  to  the  strongest  love  between  man 
and  man.  It  was  only  in  a  woman's  nature  that  I 
could  wholly  love  the  combination  of  qualities  which 
made  Jim  the  sweet-souled  fellow  he  was,  and  made 
him  dearer  to  almost  everybody  than  he  could  ever 
be  to  me,  whom  he  loved  with  his  whole  heart. 
Yet  I  feel  a  sharp  sense  of  disloyalty,  in  writing 
these  words,  in  acknowledging  even  to  myself  this 
fatal  flaw  in  my  regard  for  him.  He  was  so  pure, 
so  unselfish,  so  true;  he  lived  habitually  on  so 
much  higher  a  plane  of  thought  than  1  did,  that  I 
always  felt  in  his  presence  that  the  flaw  was  in  me, 
rather  than  in  him,  that  my  love  could  not  grow 
warmer.  His  gentle,  affectionate  sweetness,  his  en 
thusiastic  sympathy,  moved  me  greatly.  But  the 
instant  he  was  gone  from  my  sight  my  conscious 
ness  of  the  lack  in  his  nature  returned  in  undimin- 
ished  vividness,  and  I  knew  that  I  must  forever  re 
ceive  far  more  affection  than  I  could  give,  in  my 
relations  with  him. 

The  story  of  the  next  three  years  is  summed  up 
in  a  few  words.  Jim  was  faithfully  working  away 
in  the  college  routine,  which  he  more  than  half 
despised,  but  would  not  let  himself  abandon.  I 
was  working  alone  and  unhelped,  as  men  work  in 
a  shipwreck,  striving  to  save  the  remains  of  my 
father's  little  property.  It  was  a  terrible  strain,  and 
has  told  on  my  whole  life.  I  used  up  in  those 
years  physical  capital  which  could  never  be  re 
placed,  but  I  gained  a  business  knowledge  and 
15 


226  MY  TOURMALINE. 

capacity  which  no  less  severe  training  could  have 
given  me.  In  saving  my  father's  hundreds  I  learned 
to  make  my  own  thousands,  and  I  am  content.  Jim 
wrote  very  often.  I  wrote  seldom.  This  was  partly 
because  of  my  temperament,  partly  because  I  was 
so  overworked.  Through  him  I  heard  from  the 
dear  home  in  Maine,  and  through  him  sent  to  them 
my  warm  recollections ;  but  after  the  letters  at  the 
time  of  my  father's  death  I  left  off  writing  directly 
to  him.  This,  again,  was  partly  because  of  my  tem 
perament,  partly  because  I  was  so  overworked ;  but 
partly,  also,  because  I  had  an  instinctive  conscious 
ness  that  the  thought  of  Ally  must  not  become  an 
element  in  my  daily  life.  Strange  that  in  the  boy's 
heart  the  man's  instinct  should  have  been  so  strong  ; 
should  have  so  recognized  in  the  little  unformed 
child  the  mature  woman  ;  should  have  had  so  pro 
phetic  a  sense  of  all  which  lay  hid  far,  far  in  the 
future  !  When  the  news  of  my  misfortune  reached 
the  parsonage,  Mrs.  Allen  and  the  Dominie  each 
wrote  me  a  loving  and  sympathizing  letter.  Mrs. 
Allen  said  :  — 

"  Thee  knows  that  we  ourselves  set  little  store  by 
money,  nevertheless  we  can  sorrow  with  those  who 
lose  it.  If  it  is  best  for  thee  to  have  riches,  it  is 
very  easy  for  the  Lord  to  lay  them  in  thy  hands." 

Enclosed  in  the  letter  was  a  small  tit  of  paper, 
on  which  Ally  had  printed  in  large  and  angular 
etters :  — 


MY  TOURMALINE.  22J 

"  DEAR  MR.  WILL,  —  I  am  very  sorry  for  you  to 
have  to  go  away  from  brother  Jim. 
"1  would  kiss  you  if  you  were  here. 

"  ALLY." 

I  have  this  precious  bit  of  paper  now ;  the  letters 
are  faded,  and  the  paper  is  worn  thin  and  ragged  ; 
it  is  many  years  old.  Jim's  letters  were  full  of  Ally, 
especially  during  his  vacations,  which  were  always 
spent  at  the  parsonage.  Sometimes  he  was  grieved 
at  my  seeming  lack  of  sympathy  about  the  child. 
He  once  wrote  :  — 

"I  don't  know  if  I  bore  you  about  Ally.  You 
never  ask  a  question  about  her,  and  sometimes  I 
think  you  have  forgotten  our  life  in  the  old  parson 
age,  you  say  so  little  of  them  all.  But  it  don't  seem 
like  you,  Will,  to  leave  off  loving  anybody  that  loves 
you,  and  they  all  do  love  you  just  as  well  to-day  as 
the  day  we  rode  off  together  on  the  stage.  If  you 
don't  care  about  them  as  you  used  to,  and  would 
rather  not  hear  so  much  about  them,  do  tell  me,  so 
I  need  n't  write  it  any  more." 

Leave  off  loving !  No,  it  was  not  like  me.  In 
my  reply  to  this  letter  I  said :  — 

"  I  hope  you  will  never  think,  because  I  do  not 
speak  of  or  to  people,  that  I  have  ceased  to  love 
them.  I  do  not  love  you,  or  Dominie,  or  Mrs.  Al 
len,  or  Ally  any  less  than  I  did  three  years  ago. 
You  will  never  learn,  I  suppose,  that  words  are  not 
with  me  natural  expressions  of  feeling." 


228  MY  TOURMALINE. 

Jim  was  relieved,  but  not  satisfied. 

"  I  cannot  doubt  the  truth  of  all  you  say,  deaf 
Will,"  he  replied,  "out  I  wish  it  had  a  different 
sound  to  it,  somehow." 

Ah,  the  "  sound  to  it !  "  How  many  a  heart  like 
my  faithful  Jim's,  has  half  broken  for  the  lack  of  a 
certain  "  sound  "  to  words  which  were  spoken  in  all 
loyalty  and  affection,  and  really  meant  all  which  the 
aching,  listening  heart  craved,  but  could  not  learn 
to  understand  in  any  other  language  than  its  own ! 

This  letter  was  just  before  Jim's  graduation.  I 
had  promised  to  be  present  at  the  Commencement. 
The  Dominie  and  Mrs.  Allen  and  Ally  were  all  to 
be  there,  and  perhaps  Jim's  dearly  beloved  old 
guardian.  Jim's  heart  was  over-full  with  delight 
and  anticipation.  His  letters  made  even  me,  pro 
saic,  calm-blooded  man  that  I  was,  feel  like  laugh 
ing  and  crying  together. 

"  Oh,  you  dear  old  Will !  "  he  wrote  ;  "  will  you 
just  think  of  what  currents  are  coming  together 
next  week  ?  Guardy  hasn  't  seen  Mrs.  Allen  for 
thirty  or  forty  years,  and  I  know  he  used  to  love 
her  —  I  know  it  by  lots  of  things  ;  and  you  have  n't 
seen  Ally  for  almost  four  years.  I  shan't  tell  you 
a  word  about  her,  only  just  you  be  prepared  to  lose 
your  breath,  that 's  all.  I  will  tell  you  one  thing, 
though.  She  's  almost  as  tall  as  I  am,  Will !  What 
do  you  think  of  that  for  a  girl  of  fourteen  ?  Oh. 
I  'm  proud  of  her  !  And  you,  old  fellow,  have  you 
got  such  a  beard  I  shan't  know  you  ?  Oh,  but  I  'm 


MY  TOURMALINE.  22$ 

afiaid  I  shall  cry!  Hang  it  all!  I  wish  there 
wasn't  such  a  streak  of  woman  in  me." 

Ally,  almost  as  tall  as  Jim  !  I  could  not  form 
any  such  fancy  of  her. 

She  lived  in  my  mind,  always  in  one  picture  ;  a 
little  bounding  child,  with  a  wreath  of  scarlet  oak- 
leaves  over  her  shoulders,  and  golden  curls  shining 
in  the  wind ;  and  whenever  I  recalled  this  picture, 
I  recalled  as  vividly  the  sharp  thrill  of  electric  heat 
which  shot  up  my  arm  as  I  took  from  her  tiny  hand 
the  red  and  green  crystal.  My  life  during  these 
three  years  at  home  had  been  so  secluded,  so  dull, 
so  hard,  that  the  memory  of  the  winter  at  the  par 
sonage  was  in  no  danger  of  being  effaced  by  new 
impressions.  On  the  contrary,  it  but  brightened 
day  by  day.  The  traveler  cannot  forget  the  oasis 
while  he  is  still  in  the  desert.  My  mother  and  sis 
ters  were  good  women.  I  loved  them  dutifully,  but 
they  gave  me  no  joy ;  they  invested  life  with  no 
grace,  no  exhilaration,  no  stimulus ;  they  were,  like 
me,  affectionate,  realistic,  faithful,  plodding;  ex 
cept  that  I  had  known  Mrs.  Allen,  had  breathed 
the  atmosphere  of  her  house,  I  should  have  ac 
cepted  them  as  types  of  the  highest  sort  of  women 
—  so  true,  loyal,  upright,  steadfast  were  they;  but, 
I  had  learned  the  gospel  of  a  new  dispensation ;  I 
had  been  led  up  to  heights  whose  air  had  expanded 
«iy  spiritual  nature  as  the  air  of  great  altitudes  ex 
pands  the  lungs.  All  the  more  that  I  compre 
hended  my  own  incapacity  to  create  or  even  fully 


230  MY  TOURMALINE. 

understand  the  atmosphere  of  an  idealized  life,  I 
felt  that  I  needed  it,  and  knew  that  I  longed  :or  it. 
Hour  by  hour,  in  these  long  three  years,  while  Jim 
had  suspected  me  of  forgetting  the  dear  ones  at 
the  parsonage,  I  had  yearned  for  them  with  a  yearn 
ing  born  of  such  need  and  loss  as  Jim  could  never 
have  felt,  and  never  have  borne.  I  hesitated  long 
whether  I  should  go  to  the  Commencement.  The 
promise  had  been  of  such  long  standing  it  seemed 
an  obligation ;  and  well  I  knew  that  Jim's  loving 
heart  would  be  wounded  to  the  quick,  if  I  failed. 
My  inmost  instinct  warned  me  against  going,  told 
me  that  after  a  week  in  such  companionship  it 
would  be  only  the  harder  to  return  to  the  associa 
tions  and  the  burdens  of  my  inevitable  life  :  on  the 
other  hand,  it  seemed  a  selfish  thing  to  deprive  my 
friends  of  a  pleasure  solely  to  save  myself  a  pain. 
"  Supposing  life  is  made  a  little  harder,"  I  said  to 
myself,  bitterly,  "  what  then  !  I  can  bear  it."  Oh, 
how  worthless  a  faculty  is  imagination  when  we  use 
it  to  gauge  an  untried  burden !  As  well  ask  the 
eagle's  vision  to  measure  the  load  that  a  beast  of 
burden  may  draw ! 

I  went  to  the  Commencement.  An  accident  to  a 
train  delayed  me  many  hours,  and  I  did  not  arrive 
antil  nearly  noon  of  the  Commencement  day.  The 
exercises  had  begun  some  two  hours  before.  The 
church  was  filled  to  overflowing.  To  enter  by  the 
doors  was  simply  impossible.  A  step-laddei  had 
been  set  at  an  open  window  on  the  left  hand  of  the 


MY  TOURMALINE.  2$l 

pulpit,  and  by  this  the  guests  who  were  to  have 
seats  on  the  platform  had  climbed  up.  From  this 
window  I  could  see  the  whole  house.  I  had  not 
stood  there  many  minutes  before  I  caught  Jim's 
eye.  He  was  in  the  second  row  of  pews,  in  front 
of  the  platform,  looking  no  more  like  a  senior  than 
he  did  the  day  we  were  rusticated  for  our  freshman 
frolic.  Dear,  child-hearted  man.  Not  a  line  of 
beard  on  his  cheek;  not  a  trace  of  wordliness  in 
his  face  ;  every  line,  every  feature,  full  of  spiritual 
ity,  enthusiasm,  simplicity. 

When  he  caught  my  eye  his  whole  face  flushed, 
and  he  involuntarily  half  rose  from  his  seat ;  then 
recollecting  himself,  he  sank  back  with  a  comic 
look  of  despair,  and  began  to  make  signals  to  me 
which  I  could  not  in  the  least  comprehend.  In  my 
absorbed  attention  to  these  signals,  I  did  not  ob 
serve  that  I  was  obstructing  the  entrance  to  the 
platform,  and  that  some  one  was  waiting  to  pass  me. 
Suddenly,  I  heard  a  low  voice  saying,  "Will  you 
have  the  kindness,  sir,  to  let  my  father  pass  ?  "  and 
the  old  electric  shock  flashed  up  my  arm  like  fire. 
Without  turning  my  head  I  knew  that  it  was  Ally 
who  had  spoken,  and  that  she  had  the  Tourmaline 
in  her  possession.  I  sprang  back.  She  lifted  her 
beautiful  brown  eyes  to  me  as  calmly  as  to  a  stran 
ger,  thanked  me,  and  stretched  out  her  hand  to 
Dominie,  saying :  "  Come  down  here,  father,  we 
have  kept  a  seat  for  you." 

Dominie  also  looked  in  my  face  as  in  the  face  of 


232  MY  TOURMALINE. 

a  stranger,  and  bowed  courteously  as  he  passed. 
Then  for  the  first  time  I  realized  what  the  years 
had  done  to  my  face.  But  how  then  should  Jim 
have  known  me  so  instantly  ?  A  sudden  sense  of 
aggrieved  pain  stole  over  me.  I  said  to  myself : 
"  They  would  have  known  me  if  they  had  not  for 
gotten  my  face.  "  As  Dominie  took  his  seat,  I  heard 
him  say  to  Ally  :  — 

"  He  has  not  come.  It  is  very  strange.  I  am 
afraid  there  is  some  accident.  " 

I  knew  then  that  he  had  been  to  the  station  to 
meet  me.  The  temptation  was  very  strong  to  make 
myself  known,  but  the  temptation  to  study  Ally's 
face  for  a  few  hours  unobserved  was  still  stronger. 

To  say  that  she  was  the  most  beautiful  human 
creature  I  had  ever  seen  seems  to  desecrate  her. 
Comparison  between  Ally  and  other  women  was 
impossible.  Moment  by  moment  as  I  looked  at 
her  I  grew  incredulous  of  my  eyes.  Was  that  a 
girl  fourteen  years  old  ?  Was  that  the  outcast  child 
fostered  in  a  lonely  New  England  village  by  the 
village  pastor's  wife  ?  It  was  a  woman  of  such 
superb  stature  that  one  half  inch  more  of  height 
would  have  made  her  look  masculine.  It  was  a 
woman  of  such  self-poise  of  manner  and  bearing  — 
such  elegance  of  dress  —  that  out  of  America  one 
would  have  thought  her  of  some  royal  house.  If 
she  had  had  no  beauty,  the  elegance  and  the  grace 
of  her  bearing  would  have  produced  the  effect 
of  it ;  but  what  words  can  describe  the  charm  pro 


MY  TOURMALINE.  233 

duced  by  the  combination  of  these  \vith  beauty 
which  more  than  fulfilled  the  promise  of  her  child 
hood  ?  There  were  the  same  soft  yet  brilliant 
brown  eyes,  the  same  exquisite  complexion,  the 
same  golden-yellow  curls.  The  curls  were  no 
longer  falling  on  her  neck,  but  no  looping  could 
wholly  confine  them.  1  could  have  sworn  that  one 
which  drooped  and  fluttered  on  her  right  shoulder 
was  the  very  one  I  had  so  often  threatened  to  cut  off. 
The  expression  of  her  face  was  singularly  like  that 
of  Jim's.  I  had  sometimes  noticed  this  at  the  par 
sonage,  but  now  the  resemblance  had  deepened. 
There  was  the  same  simplicity,  spirituality,  enthu 
siasm.  There  was,  however,  in  spite  of  the  enthu 
siasm,  an  expression  of  placid  repose,  which  Jim's 
face  had  not.  In  this  her  face  was  like  Mrs.  Allen's, 
and  no  one  seeing  them  sitting  there  side  by  side 
could  have  failed  to  suppose  them  mother  and 
daughter.  Mrs.  Allen's  face  had  grown  wrinkled 
and  thinner,  and  yet  so  tender  and  holy  was  its 
beauty  that  it  did  not  suffer  by  contrast  with  the 
fresh  young  bloom  at  its  side. 

Ally's  dress  was  black,  of  a  fine  transparent  mate 
rial.  A  wide,  floating  scarf  of  the  same,  quaintly 
embroided  in  tiny  poppies  of  scarlet  and  gold,  was 
ihrown  over  her  shoulders.  Her  bonnet  was  of  the 
finest  black  lace,  its  only  ornament  two  scarlet  pop 
pies  and  one  golden  bud.  It  was  a  toilette  an  In 
dian  princess  might  have  worn  if  she  had  also 
been  a  poet. 


234  MY  TOURMALINE. 

"  Jim  must  have  sent  to  Paris  for  that  for  her," 
said  I  to  myself.  "Lucky  fellow  that  he  is  with 
his  money  !  "  I  was  wrong.  It  was  a  toilette  that 
Ally  had  devised,  and  her  own  hands  had  wrought 
the  poppies  in  scarlet  and  gold. 

The  President  rolled  out  his  sonorous  Latin  sen 
tences  ;  my  old  classmates  came  and  went  on  the 
stage  ;  disquisitions,  discussions,  orations,  were  all 
alike  to  me.  I  heard  the  words  as  one  hears  words 
in  a  dream.  I  was  fully  conscious  of  but  one  sense, 
and  that  was  the  sense  of  Ally's  personality.  It 
was  not  the  fascination  of  her  beauty  ;  it  was,  as  it 
always  remained,  the  vivid  sense  of  her  as  of  an 
expansion  of  my  consciousness  of  myself.  This  is 
the  nearest  analysis  which  words  can  give  of  the 
bond  which  held  me  to  Ally.  As  I  stood  with  my 
eyes  dreamily  fixed  on  the  scarlet  and  gold  pop 
pies  of  her  scarf,  I  recalled  the  wealth  of  scarlet 
oak-leaves  which  she  had  worn  on  that  autumn 
morning,  and  I  knew  that  the  two  hours  were  linked 
together  by  a  bond  as  enduring  as  eternity.  While 
I  was  thinking  of  the  strange  coincidence  in  material 
color  of  these  two  most  vivid  pictures  in  my  brain,  I 
was  suddenly  conscious  of  another  sharp,  electric 
thrill ;  not  running  as  before,  up  my  arm,  but  seem 
ing  to  come  from  the  floor  beneath  my  feet.  It  was 
very  sharp,  —  so  sharp  that  I  involuntarily  leaned 
against  the  wall  to  steady  myself  for  a  second  and 
shut  my  eyes.  When  I  opened  them  I  saw  that 
Ally's  head  was  turned  ;  she  seemed  to  be  eagerly 


MY  TOURMALINE.  235 

looking  for  some  one,  yet  the  expression  was  not 
wholly  one  of  expectancy ;  it  was  of  a  vague  anx 
iety.  Her  eyes  moved  slowly  from  face  to  face  in 
the  seats  behind  her.  As  they  came  nearer  and 
nearer  to  me  my  heart  beat  violently.  Was  she 
about  to  know  me  at  last?  Had  the  tourmaline 
bond  revealed  me  to  her  ?  Her  eyes  met  mine.  I 
had  resolved  that  no  change  in  my  face  should  as 
sist  the  recognition,  but  I  felt  the  blood  mount  to 
my  temples,  and  I  could  no  more  have  withdrawn 
my  eyes  from  hers  than  I  could  have  lifted  the  old 
church  in  my  arms.  For  a  second  her  eyes  fell  un 
der  mine,  then  she  lifted  them  again  with  the  old 
appealing  look  which  I  remembered  so  well,  her 
cheeks  flushed,  and  a  reproachful  expression  gath 
ered  around  her  mouth.  If  she  had  said  :  "  I  know 
it  is  you ;  how  can  you  be  so  cruel,  pretending  not 
to  know  me  ?  "  it  could  not  have  been  plainer.  I 
smiled,  and  in  one  second  there  broke  all  over  her 
face  a  light  of  rosy  color  and  laughing  gladness, 
and  turning  to  Mrs.  Allen  and  the  Dominie,  she 
spoke  one  eager  word,  pointing  to  me.  In  a  mo 
ment  more  the  dear  old  Dominie  had  my  hands  in 
his,  and,  too  regardless  of  the  place,  we  were  talk 
ing  breathlessly.  It  was  well  for  us  that  an  inter 
mission  in  the  exercises  arrived  at  that  moment. 
Once  the  barriers  of  my  incognito  were  broken 
down,  words  could  not  come  fast  enough. 

a  I  am  very  glad  to  see  thee  once  more,"  were 
all  the  words  of  welcome  Mrs.  Allen  spoke,  but  the 


236  MY  TOURMALINE. 

eyes  said  more.  And  Ally,  beautiful  Ally,  how 
shall  I  describe  the  myriad  ways  in  which  the  child 
heart  spoke  through  the  woman's  eyes  and  voice  ! 
The  three  years'  interval  seemed  obliterated  in  her 
consciousness  ;  it  was  again  "  Brother  Jim  "  and 
"  Mr.  Will,  "  and  the  glad,  merry,  loving  old  life 
seemed  to  be  going  on,  as  fresh  and  un trammeled 
as  ever,  there  on  the  platform  of  the  old  meeting 
house,  and  under  the  eyes  of  hundreds  of  people. 

"  I  knew  you  were  here  some  time  ago,  Mr.  Will," 
said  Ally. 

"  How,  Ally  ?  "  said  I.  She  colored,  but  did  not 
reply.  "  You  have  spoken  to  me  once  this  morn 
ing,  and  did  not  know  me,"  I  continued.  "  That 
made  it  hard  for  me  to  be  sure  you  knew  me  just 
now." 

"  Oh,  no,  Mr.  Will,  "  she  said,  earnestly.  "  That 
is  not  possible.  I  knew  your  face  the  instant  I  saw 
it.  I  had  been  looking  slowly  into  all  the  faces 
near  me  to  find  you.  I  had  been  looking  for  an 
hour.  I  knew  when  you  came  in,  I  think.1' 

It  was  probable,  then,  that  when  I  had  believed 
her  eyes  were  lifted  to  my  face,  they  were  really 
fastened  on  Dominie,  who  was  close  behind  me,  and 
she  did  not  see  me  at  all.  As  I  sat  ne?r  her,  the 
folds  of  her  dress  touching  my  feet ;  again  the  sharp 
electric  thrill  flashed  from  the  floor  to  my  brain.  I 
bent  over  her  and  whispered, 

"  Ally,  do  you  carry  Stonie  in  your  pocket  ? '" 

"Oh,  no,  not  Stonie.     He  was  lost,  you  know 


MY  TOURMALINE.  237 

But  I  have  Stonie's  two  friends  here  ; "  and  she 
threw  back  her  scarf  and  pointed  to  the  two  tourma 
lines  hanging  at  her  belt.  They  were  fastened  to 
gether  by  a  twisted  silver  wire  in  shape  of  a  cross, 
and  swung  bv  a  long  loop  of  the  wire  from  her  belt 
clasp 

"  I  keep  them  always  with  me,"  she  went  on. 
"I  am  just  as  much  a  baby  as  ever  about  them. 
Do  you  recollect  ? " 

"  Yes,"  I  said. 

"  Well,  it  is  just  so  now.  Mamma  thinks  I  shaP 
outgrow  it,  but  I  do  not  believe  I  shall  grow  any 
more.  Do  you,  Mr.  Will  ? "  she  said  with  delicious 
archness.  "  And  if  I  do,  I  believe  the  crystals  will 
keep  on  telling  me  things  as  long  as  I  live.  If  I  put 
my  hands  on  them  I  feel  their  power,  and  I  can  see 
things  while  I  am  touching  them  —  things  which  are 
happening  away  from  me.  But  mamma  does  not 
like  to  have  me  talk  about  it  to  any  one.  So  I 
never  do." 

"  Oh,  dear  me  !  "  exclaimed  Jim,  "  Tourmalines 
ae;ain  !  I  '11  cut  them  off  your  belt  some  day,  Ally. 
They  bewitch  you  and  make  you  too  bewitching, 
and  she  is  bewitching  enough  without  them.  Is  n't 
she,  Will  ?  "  turning  to  me. 

I  could  not  answer.  Something  in  his  tone 
jarred  upon  me  indescribably.  Was  this  the  Jim 
who  had  said  to  me  once  that  he  could  not  under 
stand  how  boys  spoke  lightly  of  the  wives  they 
would  one  day  have  ?  Was  it  he  who  was  speaking 


238  MY  TOURMALINE. 

in  this  jesting  way  of  the  witchery  of  the  girl  whom 
he  was  to  marry  ?  Ally  laughed,  and  her  laugh 
jarred  upon  me  still  more. 

"  No  use,  brother  Jim,"  she  said.  "  I  should  go 
to  Black  Ledge  and  get  others.  Besides,  Stonie  is 
coming  back  to  me  some  day,  and  he  is  king." 

Ally's  child-like  unconsciousness  of  self  prevented 
her  seeing  what  we  all  saw,  that  the  eyes  of  the 
whole  assembly  were  upon  her.  Her  beauty,  her 
remarkable  stature,  her  indescribable  charm  of 
voice  and  smile,  awaked  the  attention  of  every  one 
and  held  it  spell-bound. 

"Ally,  my  child,"  at  last  said  Mrs.  Allen,  "thee 
must  not  forget  that  thee  is  not  at  home.  There 
are  many  strangers  here  observing  us." 

Ally  was  as  high-spirited  as  she  was  beautiful. 
The  old  lamb-like  docility  had  gone  with  the  days 
of  suffering  which  had  created  it. 

"  Why  should  they  observe  us  ?  How  dare  they 
be  so  rude  ? "  she  said,  with  her  eyes  flashing  and 
turning  suddenly  toward  the  front  of  the  platform, 
unconsciously  taking  in  the  whole  house  in  her 
swift  glance  of  resentment,  and  looking  more  su 
perb  than  ever. 

"By  Jove,  Will,"  exclaimed  Jim,  in  a  whisper, 
"  look  at  the  galleries  !  We  '11  have  the  whole  col 
lege  at  her  feet  to-morrow ! "  and  his  face  flushed 
with  pride. 

*'  Oh,  Jim,"  said  I,  "  do  let  us  get  her  away,  J 
can't  endure  to  see  them  stare  at  her  so." 


MY  TOURMALINE.  239 

"Why,  you  queer  old  Will,"  said  Jim,  "what  do 
fou  mean  !  You  ought  to  be  just  as  proud  as  I. 
She  's  just  as  much  your  sister  as  mine." 

"  She  is  n't  either  your  sister  or  mine,  old  fellow," 
said  I,  "and  it 's  no  place  for  a  girl  like  her  —  up 
on  this  platform  for  a  mob  of  men  to  look  at.  I  'm 
going  to  take  her  farther  back;"  and  I  easily  per 
suaded  them  all  to  move  into  a  more  retired  seat, 
\\here  we  could  talk  more  quietly. 

The  memory  of  the  next  two  weeks  is  to  me  like 
the  memory  of  a  dream  —  a  dream  of  a  lifetime 
passed  in  some  fairy  land,  through  whose  scenes 
floated  one  peerless  being,  robed  in  such  robes  as 
mortals  do  not  wear.  There  were  evening  parties, 
and  there  were  drives,  and  there  were  breakfasts 
and  dinners,  and  there  were  days  in  cars,  and  days 
on  mountain  tops.  After  the  exercises  of  the  Com 
mencement  were  over,  we  went  to  the  White  Moun 
tains  for  a  week,  and  then  home  to  the  parsonage. 
It  is  certain  that  I  moved  and  spoke  through  it  all 
like  a  caim  and  rational  man,  for  no  one  wondered 
or  demurred  at  anything  I  did  ;  and  the  atmob- 
phere  of  all  our  hours  together  was  one  of  affec 
tionate  and  unbroken  hilarity ;  but  the  best  proof 
of  the  overwrought  state  in  which  I  was  really  liv 
ing  is  the  fact  that  when  all  was  over,  and  I  sat 
down  at  home  to  recall  the  incidents  of  the  journey, 
I  had  literally  not  one  single  memory  of  any  of  the 
scenes  through  which  I  had  passed.  I  had  only  a 
series  of  pictures  of  Ally,  sometimes  with  a  floating 


240  MY   TOURMALINE. 

background  of  clouds,  and  sky,  and  silence  ;  some 
times  with  an  equally  misty  one  of  the  heads  and 
faces  and  voices  of  people  ;  but  all  this,  merely  as 
background,  frame-work  for  the  one  vivid,  gleaming 
picture  of  Ally  in  her  marvelous  attire.  Never  be 
fore  was  woman  so  clothed.  Her  passionate,  ar 
tistic  sense,  spent  and  wrought  itself  in  the  fashion 
ing  of  every  garment  she  wore.  She  would  not 
allow  Jim  to  send  her  any  gowns  except  of  plain 
colors,  and  made  in  absolute  simplicity  of  style. 
Then  she  herself,  with  silks  and  flosses  of  the  most 
exquisite  hues,  wrought  upon  each  gown  its  chosen 
ornament.  Embroidery  was  to  her  as  inevitable  an 
expression  as  verse  to  a  poet.  It  was  like  no  other 
embroidery  ever  seen,  except  in  some  of  the  rarest 
Japanese  tapestries.  How  into  the  heart  of  this 
lonely  little  girl,  in  Maine,  entered  the  conception 
of  thus  repeating  and  rendering  nature,  by  simple 
stitches  of  silk,  is  one  of  the  secrets  of  divine  births 
which  no  common  law  explains.  No  one  taught 
her.  No  one  could  learn  from  her.  She  copied  a 
grass,  a  flower,  a  bird,  with  her  needle,  rapidly,  as 
another  artist  might  with  a  pencil.  The  stitches 
were  strokes  of  color.  That  was  all.  They  were 
long  and  massive,  or  they  were  light  and  fine,  as 
need  was  ;  looked  at  closely  they  were  meaningless, 
&nd  seemed  chaotic ;  but  at  the  right  distance  the 
picture  was  perfect,  —  perfect  because  copied  from 
nature,  with  that  ineffable  blending  of  accuracy  and 
nspiration  which  marks  the  true  artist. 


MY  TOURMALINE.  24! 

One  of  the  gowns  she  wore  was  a  blue  siik,  — 
blue  of  that  pale  yet  clear  tint  which  summer  skies 
take  on  at  noon  of  the  hottest  days.  On  this  were 
•wrought  pond  lilies,  cool,  white,  fragrant,  golden- 
centred—just  a  lap  full,  no  more  —  with  a  few 
trailing  stems  and  green  glistening  pads,  reaching 
to  the  hem,  and  falling  back  to  right  and  left,  —  one 
big  knot  at  the  throat,  and  a  cluster  of  buds  and 
coiling  stems  on  the  wrist  of  each  sleeve  ;  that  was 
all ;  but  a  queen  might  have  been  proud  to  wear 
the  gown.  Another  was  of  soft  white  crape  ;  upon 
this  she  had  wrought  green  and  amber  and  silver 
white  grasses,  in  a  trailing  wreath,  yet  hardly  de 
fined  enough  to  be  a  wreath,  across  the  shoulders, 
to  the  belt,  from  the  belt  carelessly  across  the  front, 
to  the  hem,  and  then  around  the  hem,  which  lay 
heavily  on  the  ground.  These  gowns  she  had 
wrought  especially  to  wear  for  "brother  Jim,"  to 
do  honor  to  his  Commencement  Day. 

"  Did  they  not  take  a  great  deal  of  time,  Ally  ?  " 
said  I.  In  my  ignorance  of  the  great  difference  be 
tween  her  type  of  work  and  ordinary  embroidery, 
I  had  been  sorry  and  surprised  to  see  such  evi 
dences  of  love  of  mere  ornamentation.  I  could  not 
understand  how  Mrs.  Allen  had  permitted  it. 

Ally  laughed  a  little  merry  laugh. 

"Not  half  so  much  time  as  to  hem  ruffles,  Mr, 
Will,"  she  said.  "  I  did  it  at  odd  minutes." 

"Can  thee  not  show  him  how  it  is  done,  Ally/ 
16 


MY  TOURMALINE. 

dear  ? "  said  Mrs.  Allen,  very  quietly,  with  a  twin 
kle  in  her  eye. 

Ally  took  the  Dominie's  white  silk  handkerchief 
roguishly  from  his  lap,  saying  :  "  I  want  it  to  give 
Mr.  Will  an  embroidery  lesson  on,  papa."  Then, 
sitting  down  on  a  low  cushion  at  my  feet,  she 
looked  up  in  my  face,  and  as  she  threaded  a  large 
needle  with  crimson  floss,  asked  :  — 

"  Now,  what  flower  will  you  have,  Mr.  Will  ?  " 

"  A  rose,  Ally,"  I  said,  "  if  that  is  not  too  much 
trouble." 

"  Oh  no,"  she  said.     "  That  is  very  easy." 

In  and  out,  in  and  out  flew  the  needle  —  making 
long  loops  at  every  stitch,  as  a  crayon  might  make 
long  curves  ;  and  in  less  than  ten  minutes  a  perfect, 
many-leaved  crimson  rose  had  blossomed  on  the 
silk. 

"  Now  I  will  show  you  how  easy  it  is  to  unmake 
arose,"  she  said,  smiling,  half  sadly;  "the  petals 
can  go  almost  as  quickly  as  they  do  in  the  wind." 
After  a  few  quick,  short  snaps  of  the  scissors  rosy 
ends  of  the  floss  fluttered  to  the  floor ;  she  pulled 
out  the  rest,  and  held  up  the  handkerchief  spotless 
white  again.  "That  rose  has  had  its  day,"  she 
said,  and  fixed  her  eyes  dreamily  on  the  crimson 
threads  on  the  floor.  "  It  was  n't  a  rose  after  all  • 
is  any  rose  a  rose,  Mr.  Will  ? " 

Dimly  I  understood  her,  but  my  dull  sense  groped 
vainly  after  the  words  which  should  carry  my  mean- 


MY  TOURMALINE.  243 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  she  went  on ;  "  you  are  one  of 
che  people  that  believe  that  a  rose  is  a  rose.  It  is 
so  many  drachms  of  so  many  sorts  of  chemicals, 
and  that 's  the  end  of  it.  But  brother  Jim  and  I  — 
we  don't  think  so.  A  rose  is  a  great  deal  more 
than  a  rose  ;  and  the  rose  you  see  is  a  great  deal 
less  than  the  rose;  and  there's  a  conundrum  for 
you,"  she  laughed,  tossing  back  the  golden  curls 
as  if  shaking  off  the  sober  aiought 

"  Brother  Jim  and  I."  The  words  sank  into  my 
heart.  Yes,  they  two  thought  alike  ;  they  saw  into 
the  secrets  of  the  rose.  What  was  I,  practical,  real 
istic  clodhopper  that  I  was,  to  dare  even  to  worship 
this  glowing  woman,  whose  soul  could  so  illumine, 
possess,  and  interpret  nature  and  life?  And  an 
other  sentence  came  to  my  memory  at  this  moment 
—  a  sentence  which  Jim  had  spoken  three  years 
before.  "  She  is  all  I  have  got  in  the  world." 

"  May  God  do  so  to  me  and  more  also,"  I  said  to 
myself  mentally,  "  if  even  in  my  heart  I  permit  my 
self  to  long  for  my  brother's  wife  —  " 

"  Yes,  Ally,"  I  said  aloud.  "  I  can  believe  that 
a  rose  is  a  great  deal  more  than  a  rose ;  but  the 
rose  I  see  is  more  than  all  roses,  and  there 's  a  co 
nundrum  for  you,  my  sister." 

She  looked  at  me  for  a  second  with  an  expression 
I  could  not  fathom.  I  had  never  before  called  her 
sister. 

"I  am  not  your  sister.  I  am  brother  Jim's 
sister,"  she  said  half  petulantly.  "You  mustn't 


244  MY  TOURMALINE. 

think  I  love  you  as  well  as  I  do  brother  Jim,  Mr. 
Will." 

"No  danger  of  that  Ally,"  I  said,  laughing. 
"  You  told  me  a  long  time  ago  that  there  '  was  n't 
any  same  as  brother.'  If  you'll  love  me  half  as 
well  as  you  do  brother  Jim  I  '11  be  satisfied." 

"I  remember  the  day  I  told  you  that,"  replied 
Ally.  "  It  is  very  true/'  and  she  left  the  room. 

I  do  not  like  even  now  to  recall  the  memory  of 
the  first  few  weeks  after  I  returned  home  from  that 
fortnight's  dream.  The  world  believes  that  the 
keenest  suffering  and  deepest  joy  are  known  by 
the  idealistic  and  imaginative  temperament.  There 
seems  a  manifest  absurdity  in  the  attempt  to  com 
pare  the  emotions  of  opposite  temperaments.  How 
can  either  measure  the  other,  and  shall  one  man 
know  both  ?  I  dissent,  however,  from  the  world's 
verdict  on  this  point.  I  believe  that  the  idealist 
enjoys  more  but  suffers  less  than  the  realist.  The 
realist  accepts  his  pain  as  he  accepts  other  things 
in  life,  for  what  it  is  —  actual  present  hopeless, 
irremediable.  Face  to  face  with  the  fact  of  it,  he 
sits  down  and  sees  no  escape.  In  the  idealist,  hope 
is  always  large  and  strong,  and  a  certain  joy  in  the 
great  significant,  solemn,  undercurrent  of  life  is 
never  absent  from  him,  even  when  the  waters  seem 
going  over  his  head.  I  am  quite  sure  that  no  pos 
sible  future  could  have  looked  to  either  Jim  or  Ally 
so  like  a  pall  as  my  future  life  did  to  me  during 
these  days.  Nothing  but  a  strong  physique,  a  cer- 


MY  TOURMALINE  24$ 

tain  quality  of  dogged  pride,  saved  me  from  suc 
cumbing  to  the  sense  that  life  had  nothing  worth 
living  for.  How  I  cursed  my  folly  in  having  ex 
posed  myself  to  the  suffering  !  "  The  child  I  should 
have  forgotten ;  the  woman  I  never,  never  can  for 
get,"  I  groaned  to  myself  daily.  I  destroyed  Ally's 
picture.  I  destroyed  every  note  I  had  of  hers  ex 
cept  the  little  bit  of  paper  on  which  were  written 
in  the  big  childish  letters :  "  If  you  were  here  I 
would  kiss  you."  That  I  could  not  destroy.  When 
I  bade  her  good-by  she  gave  me  one  of  the  tour 
malines  from  her  cross,  and  this  I  laughingly  prom 
ised  to  wear  always  as  a  charm. 

"Have  a  care,  Will.  There's  more  in  those 
stones  than  you  think,"  said  Jim. 

Indeed  there  was.  I  was  distinctly  conscious 
many  times  of  an  electric  effect  produced  on  my 
nerves  by  the  stone.  I  unconsciously  acquired  the 
habit  of  holding  it  in  my  hand  while  I  was  reading, 
or  whenever  I  sank  into  a  reverie.  Sometimes  for 
days  it  would  not  give  me  any  sensation  whatever. 
Then  suddenly,  —  whether  from  my  own  physical 
condition  or  from  the  state  of  the  atmosphere,  or 
from  some  subtle  bond  between  it  and  its  magnet 
ized  fellow  hanging  at  Ally's  belt,  I  cannot  say,  — 
it  would  give  me  sharp  shock  after  shock,  would 
seem,  as  Ally  had  said  when  she  was  a  child,  to 
"purr"  in  my  hand,  and  would  make  me  "see 
things  "  as  it  used  to  make  her  see  them.  Often,  at 
such  times,  I  would  see  the  interior  of  the  parson 


246  MY  TOURMALINE. 

age  as  vividly  as  if  I  were  there.  I  would  sink 
into  a  sort  of  clairvoyant  trance,  out  of  which  I 
would  rouse  only  by  a  strong  effort  of  my  will,  and 
find  myself  cold,  my  hands  and  feet  numb  and 
pricking,  and  partially  paralyzed  for  a  few  moments. 
1  firmly  believe  that  many  times  in  these  trances  I 
saw  as  clairvoyants  see  things  which  were  happen 
ing  hundreds  of  miles  away.  There  were  many 
coincidences  which  I  cannot  relate  here  which  es 
tablished  this  point  fully  to  my  own  mind,  though 
they  might  not  do  so  to  others. 

The  hard  and  dreary  days  grew  into  weeks, 
months,  years.  Jim  was  studying  at  a  theological 
seminary.  His  tender  heart  had  drawn  him  strongly 
to  seek  some  way  of  helping  souls,  and  he  had  re 
solved  to  become  a  preacher.  The  parsonage  life 
was  going  on  placid,  beautiful  as  ever.  The  Dom 
inie  and  his  wife  were  slowly  nearing  harbor,  with 
the  radiant  light  of  a  glowing  sunset  illumining 
their  faces.  Ally  was  the  central  delight  and  sup 
port  of  their  lives.  Jim's  letters  kept  me  fully  in 
formed  of  all  which  happened  to  them  as  well  as  to 
himself.  His  letters  were  fuller  and  fuller  of  Ally. 
I  could  not  tell  him  that  such  letters  gave  me  pain, 
neither  was  I  wholly  sure  that  they  did  me  harm. 
They  heightened  my  consciousness  of  the  indis 
soluble  bond  between  him  and  his  adopted  sister. 
Ally's  genius  was  fast  developing  in  many  ways. 
Her  passion  for  study  was  as  great  as  her  passion 
ate  love  of  beauty.  As  no  summer  could  satiate 


MY  TOURMALINE.  247 

tier  heart  with  sunshine  and  flowers,  so  no  knowl 
edge  could  satiate  her  soul.  When  she  was  not 
drinking  in  nature  or  reproducing  it  in  the  wonder 
ful  tapestry-like  embroidery,  she  was  absorbed  in 
study. 

"Only  think,  Will!"  Jim  wrote  in  one  of  his 
letters.  "Dominie  has  begun  to  teach  Ally  He 
brew.  She  begged  so  hard  that  he  could  not  refuse 
her,  and  Ally  says  she  likes  it  better  than  Greek ; 
it  is  so  much  grander.  Dominie  says  he  has  never 
had  a  pupil  who  learns  languages  as  Ally  does. 
She  has  intuitions  about  them  just  as  she  does 
about  other  things,  and  she  never  forgets." 

Again  he  wrote  :  "Ally's  flowers  grow  more  and 
more  wonderful.  I  only  wish  you  could  see  the 
panels  she  has  made  for  the  corner  cupboards  in 
the  sitting-room  !  You  'd  never  know  the  old  rocm. 
It  is  a  perfect  picture-gallery.  I  brought  one  of 
her  pieces  up  to  town  last  week,  and  the  artists 
all  say  it  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  things  ever 
seen  in  America,  and  entirely  unique  in  its  way. 
One  of  the  fellows  made  me  so  angry.  'Why,' 
said  he,  'this  young  lady  could  make  thousands  of 
dollars  if  she  would  put  these  things  in  the  market. 
They  would  command  any  price  for  draperies  of 
rooms  or  panels  in  doors.'  Fancy  Ally !  I  sa'd 
very  coldly  that  '  luckily  this  young  lady  was  in  no 
need  of  earning  money,'  and  the  man  had  the  im 
pudence  to  say  that  it  was  not  'luckily'  at  all; 
that  art  would  be  advanced  if  such  works  were 


248  MY  TOURMALINE. 

known.  I  wanted  to  say  to  him  that  art  was  ad 
vanced  whenever  one  true  and  beautiful  thing  was 
done,  whether  it  ever  came  into  what  he  called  his 
market  or  not,  —  whether  it  were  ever  seen  by  any 
other  eyes  than  the  artist's  or  not.  I  Ve  a  notion 
that  art  is  only  one  form  of  truth,  and  that  laws  of 
growth  of  truth  are  as  sure  and  steadfast  as  the  laws 
of  growth  of  a  crystal.  I  reckon  the  tourmalines  in 
Black  Ledge  never  stop  growing  one  second  from 
the  day  they  began,  whether  we  are  to  find  them 
to-day,  or  our  children's  grandchildren  are  to  find 
them  a  hundred  years  hence.  But  I  did  'nt  argue 
with  the  fellow.  He  paints  great  pictures  of  West 
ern  territories,  a  county  or  two  at  a  time,  warranted 
to  fit  the  largest  dining-rooms,  and  gets  thirty  thou 
sand  dollars  apiece  for  them.  What 's  the  use  of 
telling  him  that  my  darling's  pansies  and  fox-gloves 
on  a  bit  of  white  crape  set  in  an  old  mahogany 
door  in  a  Maine  parsonage  are  dearer  to  the  heart 
of  the  God  of  Art,  and  really  a  higher  water  mark 
in  the  Art  Record,  than  all  his  acres  of  canvas  ? " 

It  was  not  only  that  Jim's  letters  grew  fuller  and 
fuller  of  Ally.  They  grew  fuller  and  fuller  ol  ex 
pressions  of  fondness  for  her,  of  delight  in  her. 
While  these  maddened  me,  they  also  slowly  awoke 
in  my  heart  a  feeling  akin  to  scorn  of  Jim's  love. 

"  He  speaks  of  her  as  his  darling  to  a  third  per 
son,"  I  said  to  myself.  I  could  as  soon  hold  up 
one  of  her  golden  curls  to  passers-by  in  the  street 
and  say,  "  Look  at  this  for  a  color,  my  masters  ! r 


MY  TOURMALINE.  249 

I  was  bitterly  unjust  to  Jim  in  these  days.  Forgive 
me,  my  brother,  forgive  me. 

It  was  near  the  end  of  the  third  year  that  I  took 
from  the  post-office  one  day  a  letter  addressed  in 
Jim's  handwriting.  As  I  put  it  in  my  pocket  I 
touched  the  tourmaline  swinging  from  my  chain, 
and  felt  a  sharp  electric  thrill.  I  took  the  stone  in 
my  hand  and  fancied  that  it  was  warm.  The  elec 
tric  pricking  was  stronger  than  I  had  felt  it  for 
months.  "  The  letter  is  full  of  Ally,  I  suppose,"  I 
said  to  myself,  and  I  went  to  my  own  room  to  read 
it.  I  fully  expected  that  the  letter  was  to  tell  me 
of  their  approaching  marriage. 

Like  a  man  stunned,  blinded,  I  groped  my  way 
through  these  opening  sentences  :  — 

"DEAR  WILL,  —  I  have  something  to  tell  you 
which  will  surprise  you  very  much.  I  have  made 
up  my  mind  to  go  out  to  India  as  a  missionary. 
This  is  no  new  idea.  I  have  been  thinking  of  it 
for  months,  but  I  thought  it  best,  and  kindest  too, 
to  say  nothing  of  the  plan  until  my  resolution  was 
fully  taken.  I  have  had  for  a  long  time  a  growing 
and  unconquerable  instinct  that  this  was  my  proper 
work  and  my  proper  field  for  work.  Of  course  you 
know  me  well  enough  to  know  that  I  have  no  inten 
tion  of  going  out  as  the  delegate,  employee,  or  rep 
resentative  of  any  sect  or  any  organization.  I  shall 
go  independently,  and  after  I  get  there  I  shall  work 
as  I  see  fit,  just  as  I  might  in  any  city  or  town  here 
My  fortune  will  enable  me  to  do  this,  thank  Heaven, 


2^0  MY  TOURMALINE. 

and  to  give  material  as  well  as  spiritual  help  to  the 
people  over  whom  my  heart  so  strongly  yearns. 
The  good  missionaries  in  India  will,  no  doubt,  call 
me  a  Buddhist,  and  include  me  in  their  labors.  But 
perhaps  I  can  love  them  into  liking  me  enough  to 
let  me  alone." 

Here  I  threw  the  letter  down.  I  could  read  no 
more.  I  buried  my  face  in  my  hands.  "  Oh,  my 
God ! "  I  said,  "  to  take  that  glorious  girl  to  India, 
to  kill  her,  body  and  soul !  " 

Whenever  I  had  dared  to  picture  to  myself  Ally's 
future  as  a  wife,  it  had  always  been  as  the  centre  of 
a  perfect  home,  surrounded  by  all  that  her  rich  nat- 
ire  craved  and  could  use  of  beauty,  of  culture,  of 
luxury.  I  had  fancied  the  whole  world  itself  laid 
under  tribute  for  her  growth,  her  joy,  as  I  myself 
would  have  laid  it  had  I  won  her  love.  Only  too 
well  I  knew  the  uselessness  of  attempting  to  influ 
ence  Jim  when  one  of  his  sentiments  had  suddenly 
become  a  conviction  and  crystallized  into  a  pur 
pose. 

"  It  is  no  use,"  I  grieved.  "  He  has  taken  India 
just  as  he  took  Ally  —  into  his  very  heart  of  hearts. 
No  earthly  powej  could  have  moved  him  or  can 
now." 

I  picked  the  letter  up  and  read  on. 

"I  have  made  all  my  arrangements -to  go  in  a 
month.  Good-byes  are  hard,  even  when  one  has 
so  few  to  say  as  I  have.  The  sooner  they  are  over 
the  better.  I  have  but  one  anxiety  in  going.  Of 


MY  TO UR 'MA LINE.  251 

course  you  know  what  that  is.  It  has  been  so  great 
that  it  has  many  times  brought  me  to  the  verge  of 
abandoning  my  purpose.  It  is  the  leaving  Ally, 
my  dear,  sweet,  darling  sister.  But  she  has  a  father 
and  a  mother,  and  may  I  not  say,  dear  Will,  a 
brother  ?  I  have  settled  on  her  unreservedly  half 
of  my  fortune,  and  dear  old  Guardy  is  to  take  care 
of  it  for  her  as  he  always  had  for  me." 

Mechanically  I  folded  the  letter.  Mechanically, 
but  with  breathless  rapidity,  I  moved  about  my 
room,  making  all  my  arrangements  for  going  to  Jim 
by  the  next  train,  which  would  start  in  a  few  min 
utes.  I  had  but  one  distinct  consciousness  in  my 
brain  ;  it  whirled  back  and  forth,  and  back  and 
forth,  in  the  one  question  :  If  Jim  could  leave  Ally 
like  this,  had  he  loved  her  as  I  thought  ?  I  must 
know. 

A  day  and  a  night  and  a  day  I  rode  with  that 
question,  in  a  million  shapes,  mocking,  comforting, 
racking  my  soul.  When  I  stood  face  to  face  with 
Jim,  in  answer  to  his  alarmed  and  eager  "Why, 
Will,  Will,  what  has  brought  you  ?  Are  you  in 
trouble  ? "  all  I  could  do  was  to  gasp  out  slowly, 
syllable  by  syllable,  the  same  question,  — 

"Jim,  if  you  love  Ally,  how  can  you  leave  her 
so?" 

My  face  more  than  the  words  told  him  the  whole 
story. 

"  Oh,  my  Will,  my  Will !  "  he  said,  putting  his 
kands  on  my  shoulders,  and  standing  so  closely 


252  MY  TOURMALINE, 

bieast  to  breast  with  me  that  his  breath  was  warm 
on  my  cheek.  "  I  never  once  thought  of  Ally  as  a 
wife,  never !  God  be  praised  that  you  love  her. 
Oh,  my  grand  old  boy,  how  did  you  ever  torture 
yourself  so  for  nothing  ?  "  he  burst  out,  impatiently, 
throwing  one  arm  around  my  neck  in  our  old  boy 
ish  fashion. 

I  had  not  slept,  I  had  scarcely  eaten,  for  seventy 
hours.  I  staggered  and  reeled,  and  Jim  caught  me 
in  his  arms.  I  felt  that  I  looked  up  in  his  face 
helplessly,  as  a  woman  might.  For  one  brief  mo 
ment  in  our  lives,  he  was  the  stronger  man.  He 
gave  me  wine,  and  tried  to  persuade  me  to  rest, 
To  all  his  persuasions  I  had  but  one  answer,  — 

"  I  must  go  to  Ally.  There  is  no  rest  for  me  till 
I  know." 

It  was  a  marvelous  thing  how  strong  a  hope  had 
sprung  into  instantaneous  life  in  my  heart.  I  had 
no  shadow  of  reason  to  believe  that  Ally  loved  me. 
Yet  I  believed  it. 

"  I  will  come  back  to  you,  Jim ;  I  will  come  back 
at  once,"  I  said,  "  but  you  must  let  me  go.  It  it 
of  no  use  to  try  to  stop  me." 

He  proposed  to  go  with  me.  I  was  too  over 
wrought  to  consider  the  cruelty  of  my  words,  and 
I  exclaimed :  — 

"  Not  for  worlds  !  " 

It  seemed  to  me  at  that  moment  that  to  have 
seen  Ally  meet  us,  and  throw  her  arms  around  her 
"  brother  Jim,"  before  I  knew  that  he  was  to  her  a 


MY  TOURMALINE.  253 

brother  as   she  was  to  him  a   sister,  wou.d  have 
made  of  me  a  Cain. 

Jim's  nature  was  too  thoroughly  sweet  for  resent 
ment  ! 

"You  are  right,  my  dear  fellow,"  he  answered, 
u  I  should  only  be  in  the  way." 

Again  I  rode  a  day  and  a  night  and  a  day  in  the 
ceaseless  din  of  the  cars,  with  one  question  whirl 
ing  back  and  forth  and  back  and  forth  in  my  rest 
less  brain.  The  spring  was  just  opening.  All 
through  New  England's  lovely  meadows  the  apple- 
trees  were  rosy  pink  and  white.  The  sweet  bridal 
colors  flashed  past  my  eyes,  mile  after  mile,  in  sig 
nificant  beauty  ;  my  life,  too,  had  had  a  long  win 
ter  ;  I  felt  the  thrill  of  its  coming  spring. 

It  was  near  sunset  when  I  reached  the  town  now 
so  dear,  which  had  looked  so  dismal  and  wretched 
to  me  when  I  first  saw  it  six  years  before.  I  walked 
slowly  toward  the  parsonage.  For  the  first  time 
since  I  left  Jim's  rooms,  a  misgiving  forced  itself 
upon  me,  whether  I  had  done  wisely  in  coming 
unannounced,  and  I  dreaded  the  first  moment  of 
meeting.  I  need  not  have  done  so.  It  was  true 
and  right  I  should  lose  no  second's  time  in  hast 
ing  to  Ally ;  and  the  right  always  arranges  itself. 
A  few  rods  from  the  parsonage  was  a  clump  of  tall 
firs.  I  paused  behind  these  and  gazed  earnestly  at 
the  house.  "  Oh,"  I  thought,  "  if  Ally  would  only 
come  out !  "  Involuntarily  I  laid  my  hand  on  the 
tourmaline,  and  recalled  Ally's  childish  fancies 


254  MY  TOURMALINE. 

about  her  "  Stonie."  The  crystal  was  highly  elec 
tric  at  that  moment,  and  I  felt  a  sharp  shock.  At 
ihat  second  the  door  of  the  house  opened,  and 
Ally  —  my  Ally  — stood  on  the  threshold. 

She  wore  a  white  gown,  and  had  a  dark  purple 
scarf  thrown  over  her  shoulders.  She  looked  up 
and  down  the  road  as  if  expecting  some  one, — 
then  sat  down  on  the  door-step  and  leaned  her 
head  against  the  wall,  as  she  had  done  the  morning 
Jim  and  I  had  ridden  away  on  the  stage  six  years 
ago.  The  clusters  of  purple  lilac  blossoms  seemed 
now,  as  they  did  then,  to  caress  her  golden  curls  — 
curls  as  golden  to-day  as  then.  I  was  hidden  from 
her  sight  by  the  firs.  I  watched  her  for  some  mo 
ments.  She  sat  motionless  ;  I  could  see  that  she 
held  in  her  fingers  something  swinging  from  her 
belt.  "Why  does  not  the  tourmaline  tell  her  I  am 
here  ? "  I  thought,  and  I  laid  my  hand  on  my  own 
crystal,  as  I  walked  toward  the  house. 

She  rose  slowly,  looked  earnestly  toward  me,  and 
then  came  with  hesitating  steps  down  the  walk. 
The  almond  flowers  shook  down  a  cloud  of  rosy 
petals  at  the  floating  touch  of  her  gown.  I  reached 
the  gate  first,  folded  my  arms  on  its  upper  bar,  and 
waited.  She  came  toward  me  with  her  lips  parted 
in  a  smile  such  as  I  never  saw  on  her  face  before 
• — such  as  I  shall  never  see  again,  unless  God  takes 
her  first  to  heaven,  to  wait  my  coming  there.  No 
trace  of  surprise  —  no  shade  ot  strangeness  was  on 
tier  countenance. 


MY  TOURMALINE.  255 

"  I  thought  you  were  coming  to-night,  Mr.  Will," 
she  said,  as  simply  as  she  would  have  said  it  six 
years  before. 

"  Oh,  Ally,  how  could  you  know  !  "  I  exclaimed. 

"  The  same  old  way,"  she  replied,  smiling,  but 
still  with  a  certain  solemnity  in  the  smile,  and  touch 
ing  the  tourmaline  which  swung  at  her  belt.  "  I  half 
saw  you,  Mr.  Will.  1  am  all  alone  in  the  house. 
Mother  and  father  have  gone  to  the  prayer-meeting. 
But  I  can  be  glad  enough  for  three  till  they  come 
home." 

"  Can  you  be  glad  enough  for  the  fourth,  Ally  ?  " 
said  I. 

She  looked  at  me  perplexedly. 

"Oh,  Ally  —  Ally,"  I  exclaimed  in  a  tone  which 
needed  no  syllables  further  to  convey  its  meaning. 

She  did  not  tremble  nor  flush  —  she  gazed  stead 
ily  into  my  eyes,  as  if  reading  my  inmost  soul.  Her 
look  was  not  one  of  gladness  —  it  was  of  unutter 
able  solemnity.  We  had  reached  the  doorstep. 
The  lilac  trees  waved  above  our  heads,  and  the 
strong,  sweet  odor  of  the  blossoms  seemed  to  wrap 
us  as  in  a  fragrant  cloud.  Still  her  bright,  fearless, 
loving,  child-like,  woman-full  eyes  gazed  steadily 
into  mine,  and  she  did  not  speak.  I  could  not. 

I  put  in  her  hand  the  little  worn  bit  of  papei 
which  had  lain  on  my  heart  for  five  years.  She  un 
folded  it  and  read  her  own  childish  words  :  — 

"  If  you  were  here  I  would  kiss  you,  Mr.  Will." 

A  faint  rosy  color  mounted  to  her  temples  —  to 


256  MY  TOURMALINE. 

her  golden  hair ;  the  look  of  solemn,  earnest  seek 
ing  deepened  on  her  face,  but  into  it  there  came  a 
tenderness,  an  ineffable  love,  and,  lifting  her  face 
to  mine,  she  repeated  in  a  low  whisper  the  dear  old 
childish  words :  — 

"  Shall  I  kiss  you,  Mr.  Will  ?  "  — 

An  hour  later  the  bent  figures  of  the  beloved 
Dominie  and  his  wife  came  slowly  up  the  path  un 
der  the  firs.  Arm  in  arm,  with  an  unconscious  and 
touching  revelation  of  tenderness  in  their  clinging 
hold  on  each  other,  they  paused  under  the  trees 
and  looked  up  at  the  stars. 

"  Let  us  go  and  meet  them,  Ally,"  I  said. 

Hand  in  hand  we  walked  swiftly  toward  them. 
When  they  first  saw  us  they  stopped  in  surprise  for 
a  second,  then  hurried  on  with  ejaculations  of  joy 
and  wonder.  Mrs.  Allen's  clear-visioned  eyes  saw 
all  in  the  first  moment  of  our  meeting. 

"  Oh,  my  children  !  "  she  exclaimed,  and  even  in 
the  twilight  I  saw  tears  of  gladness  in  her  eyes. 
"  Husband,  husband,"  she  continued,  "  they  love 
each  other." 

Dear  Dominie's  slower  sense  but  dimly  compre 
hended  her  meaning.  As  he  looked  into  our  faces 
it  grew  clear  to  him,  and,  lifting  up  both  his  hands, 
he  blessed  us.  Then  Ally  left  me  and  clung  to 
her  father's  arm,  and  we  walked  slowly  homeward. 
Mrs.  Allen  and  I  lingered  at  the  door. 

"  I  used  to  hope  for  this,"  she  said,  "  in  the  first 
months  of  our  knowing  thee.  Thee  has  the  tern 


MY  TOURMALINE. 

perament  which  our  child  requires.  My  great  fear 
for  her  has  been  that  she  would  love  some  man  of 
an  organization  similar  to  her  own.  It  is  the  dan 
ger  of  women  of  her  temperament  and  mine,  but  I 
have  learned  that  the  great  need  of  such  a  tempera 
ment  is  a  trustful  sense  of  rest,  of  calm  tenderness, 
and  the  tendency  to  restrain  rather  than  to  stimu 
late  the  nervous  life.  Thee  will  do  my  child  good 
as  well  as  make  her  happy,  just  as  my  beloved  hus 
band  has  done  for  me." 

"  God  bless  you,  mother,  for  saying  this  !  "  I  ex 
claimed.  "  Do  you  not  really  think  there  is  danger 
of  my  being  a  clog  to  Ally  ?  I  feel  so  utterly  un 
able  even -to  comprehend  her  sometimes.  I  only 
know  that  I  worship  her." 

"  Undoubtedly  thee  will  be  a  clog,  as  thee  terms 
it,  on  a  part  of  her  nature,  but  it  is  a  part  which 
needs  to  be  held  down,"  replied  the  sweet,  low,  wise 
voice.  "  Thy  tenderness  will  perpetually  calm  her 
unrest,  thy  practical  wisdom  will  direct  her  swift 
fancy,  and  it  will  not  be  long  before  thee  will  smile 
to  think  that  thee  ever  said  thee  could  not  compre 
hend  her ;  and  she  will  create  in  every  hour  of  thy 
existence  a  new  life  of  which  thee  has  never  so 
much  as  dreamed." 

When  I  entered  the  sitting-room  I  started  back, 

exclaiming :  "  Good  heavens  !  what  room  is  this  ?  " 

Jim  had  told  me  often  of  the  transformations  that 

Ally's  art  had  wrought  in  the  room,  but  I  was  un- 

17 


25 S  MY  TOURMALINE. 

prepared  for  it.     I  gazed  from  wall  to  wall  in  bewil 
derment.     Ally  stood  by  delightedly,  saying  :  — 

"  Is  it  nice  ?  Do  you  like  it  ?  We  do,  but  nobody 
else  who  knows  has  seen  it  except  brother  Jim,  and 
he  thinks  it  is  lovely  because  I  did  it,  and  if  it  were 
hideous  he  would  think  so  all  the  same.  The  vil 
lage  people,  some  of  them,  say  it  is  *  heathenish/ 
and  when  I  told  them  that  I  was  glad  of  it ;  that 
the  people  they  called  heathens  knew  a  great  deal 
more  than  we  did,  they  looked  at  me  as  if  they 
thought  I  was  crazy." 

"  I  wish  thee  had  more  patience  with  such  igno 
rance,  my  daughter,"  said  Mrs.  Allen,  quickly. 
"  Thee  could  teach  them  what  true  beauty  is,  if 
thee  would." 

Ally  shook  her  head  impatiently. 

"  It  would  n't  be  of  any  use,  mother  dear.  No 
body  was  ever  taught  what  beauty  is  by  being  told. 
It 's  just  like  my  telling  you  it  is  warm  by  the  ther 
mometer  when  you  are  shivering.  You  don't  mind 
a  bit  about  my  telling  you  it  is  over  seventy  de 
grees." 

The  Dominie  laughed  heartily  at  this  sally.  The 
one  sole  discomfort  in  the  parsonage  winter  life 
was  dear  Mrs.  Allen's  need  of  a  higher  tempera 
ture  than  the  Dominie's  and  Ally's  more  robust 
blood  could  endure. 

"Nobody  learns  beauty,"  Ally  went  on.  "You 
reel  it  in  one  second,  if  you  ever  can.  If  this  room 
'is  beautiful,  there  will  now  and  then  come  into  it 


MY  TOURMALINE.  259 

people  who  will  see  what  it  is,  and  they  will  be  the 
better  for  it.  It  only  hurts  and  hardens  the  others 
to  tell  them  they  ought  to  like  it.  And,  as  for  ex 
plaining  why  a  thing  is  beautiful,  you  can't.  There 
is  n't  any  why." 

The  room  was  indeed  beautiful.  Across  three  of 
the  corners  had  been  fitted  book-shelves  with  doors 
of  mahogany.  The  wood  had  been  brought  to  the 
town  by  an  old  sea  captain.  He  had  brought  it 
from  Brazil,  and  it  had  lain  a  quarter  of  a  century, 
waiting  for  him  to  grow  rich  enough  to  build  a 
house.  Before  that  time  came  he  died,  and  the 
mahogany  boards  went  to  auction,  with  old  sea 
chests  and  other  rubbish.  Dusty  and  unplaned  as 
they  were,  the  rich,  dark  wine-colored  planks  caught 
Ally's  eye,  and  she  had  bought  them  herself,  to  the 
Dominie's  great  amusement.  The  doors  were  fin 
ished  in  long,  narrow  panels  with  a  single  mold 
ing.  In  the  centre  of  each  was  framed  one  of  Al 
ly's  flower-pieces ;  in  one,  purple  pansies  on  white 
ground ;  in  another,  pale,  shadowy  white  foxglove 
blossoms,  in  a  cream-colored  jar  on  a  dark  claret 
ground  ;  and  in  the  third,  amber  and  green  and 
dark-red  grasses  on  a  light-blue  ground.  In  the 
fourth  corner  stood  the  abutilon-trees,  now  grown 
to  the  ceiling,  and  branching  wide  like  lilac  bushes. 
A  mantel-shelf  and  several  brackets  had  been  cut 
simply  of  the  same  mahogany,  and  along  their  front 
edges  were  set,  like  tiles,  bands  of  the  same  flower 
embroidery,  or  of  fantastic  patterns  like  mosaics, 


260  MY  TOURMALINE. 

Cornices  of  the  same  were  at  the  windows.  The 
cornices  were  all  of  one  pattern  —  mingled  wood 
bine  sprays  of  deep  crimson  on  light  blue.  These 
were  the  most  beautiful  things  in  the  room. 

"That 's  the  way  our  woodbine  branches  look  in 
November,  blowing  between  your  eyes  and  the  blue 
sky,"  said  Ally,  eagerly,  as  I  was  studying  them  and 
wondering  how  the  combination  could  be  so  daring 
and  seem  so  simple.  The  effect  of  all  this  dark 
mahogany  was  heightened  by  a  pale  uniform  gray 
tint  on  the  walls  and  in  the  carpet.  There  was  no 
bright  color  on  the  floor  except  in  the  rug  before 
the  fire.  The  rug  was  of  heavy  gray  felt.  In  one 
corner  were  two  palm-trees,  with  gorgeous  blue  and 
red  parrots  swinging  from  their  branches,  the  palm- 
trees  copied  truly  from  a  photograph  of  a  palm, 
and  not  looking  in  the  least  like  the  tall,  flattened 
feather  dusters  which  are  the  conventional  render 
ing  of  the  theoretical  palm-tree.  A  mahogany  easel 
stood  in  front  of  the  abutilon-tree,  and  on  this  was 
a  superb  photograph  of  the  Venus  of  Milo.  The 
pure  white  statue  gleamed  out  among  the  rich  dark 
colorings  about  it.  The  furniture  was  covered  with 
crimson  and  blue  chintz,  and  the  curtains  were  of 
a  creamy  white,  of  some  curious  filigreed  Indian 
material,  which  had  come  from  the  treasures  of  the 
same  old  sea  captain  who  had  unwittingly  brought 
all  the  way  from  the  Brazil  forests  the  settings  for 
Ally's  pictures. 

"  I  hope  the  old  man  sees  his  mahogany  now,' 


MY  TOURMALINE.  261 

said  Ally,  dreamily,  "  and  I  think  he  does.  I  often 
feel  conscious  of  him,  and  in  very  hot  days  the 
wood  purrs  sometimes  a  little  as  my  crystals  do. 
They  are  of  kin." 

"Oh,  Ally,  what  a  room  !  what  a  room!"     I  ex 
claimed.     It  was  all   I  could  say.     The  vivid,  in 
tense  personality  of  the  room  overpowered  me.     It 
seemed  strange  that  they  could  all  be  living  a  quiet 
every-day  life  in  such  surroundings. 

"  I  'd  love  just  to  make  a  whole  house  like  it," 
said  Ally,  sighing.  The  bareness  of  the  parsonage 
was  a  grief  to  her;  her  artistic  sense  demanded 
harmony  throughout. 

"  You  shall,  my  Ally,"  I  whispered,  and  forgetting 
that  we  were  not  alone,  I  folded  her  in  my  arms. 

There  is  but  a  brief  story  left  to  tell  of  Ally's 
life  and  mine.  I  mean  that  the  story  which  I  shall 
tell  is  brief.  When  happiness  begins,  history  stops. 
There  is,  however,  in  "  Stonie's  "  life  one  more  in 
cident  which  belongs  rightfully  to  the  readers  of 
this  story.  Ally  and  I  were  married  before  that 
year's  apple  blossoms  had  all  fallen.  There  was 
no  reason  why  we  should  wait ;  and  Jim  had  made 
his  one  last  request  of  us,  that  we  would  go  with 
him  to  Europe  on  his  way  to  India.  Very  earnestly 
he  begged  the  Dominie  and  Mrs.  Allen  to  go  with 
us  ;  but  the  old  lovers  refused. 

"  We  are  too  old,"  they  said.  "The  cities  of  this 
woild  do  not  draw  us  as  they  did.  We  expect 
rery  soon  to  see  a  fairer  one." 


262  MY  TOURMALINE. 

They  were  right !  God  rest  their  souls  !  They 
died  within  one  week  of  each  other,  in  less  than  a 
year  from  the  day  of  Ally's  marriage. 

Mrs.  Allen  died  first.  The  Dominie  died  ap 
parently  of  the  same  disease,  but  we  who  knew, 
knew  that  he  died  of  her  death. 

Our  first  Christmas  day  was  spent  in  Vienna. 
We  lodged  there  with  a  queer  old  Professor  whom 
Jim  had  met  on  a  trip  in  the  Austrian  Tyrol.  He 
was  not  poor,  but  spent  all  his  money  in  making 
botanical  and  geological  collections,  to  the  displeas 
ure  of  his  wife,  who  had  at  last  resolved  to  take 
lodgers  as  an  offset  for  her  husband's  scientific  ex 
travagances. 

"  He  will  us  ruin,  mine  Franz,"  she  said,  shrug 
ging  her  shoulders.  "  He  will,  to  sell  the  clothes 
off  his  back  for  one  small  stone  ;  and  it  is  not  that 
one  can  eat  and  drink  from  stones  !  "  But  for  all 
that  Frau  Scherkle  was  very  fond  of  her  Professor, 
and  told  us  always  when  he  was  asked  to  dine  at 
great  houses,  "  because  that  he  so  much  do  know, 
they  do  not  care  for  his  so  shabby  coat." 

As  we  were  sitting  at  dinner  on  Christmas  day, 
Professor  Franz  burst  into  the  room  unannounced, 
in  a  state  of  great  excitement. 

"Come,  come  all,"  he  exclaimed.  "Come  this 
minute  to  the  Museum.  There  are  stores  from 
your  country,  like  the  stones  the  beautiful  madame 
wears  at  her  belt.  They  are  unpacking  the  casket 
now.  Come,  come  !  The  dinner  is  no  matter.'' 


MY  TOURMALINE.  263 

Ally  turned  pale.  I  observed  that  she  clasped 
her  tourmaline  cross  in  her  right  hand  as  she  rose 
from  the  table. 

"  Let  us  go  at  once,"  she  said,  and  in  a  few  mo 
ments  we  were  in  the  street,  hurrying  to  keep  up 
with  the  little  Professor,  who  ran  before  us.  "  It 
is  Stonie,  Will,"  said  Ally,  in  a  low  tone  to  me. 
"  You  need  not  laugh,  I  know  it  is." 

Prof.  Scherkle  had  admittance  to  all  parts  of  the 
Museum.  He  led  us  to  a  large  basement  room, 
where  we  found  workmen  busily  engaged  in  unpack 
ing  boxes  of  minerals.  Those  which  had  already 
been  taken  out  were  arranged  upon  a  table  in  the 
centre  of  the  room. 

Ally  walked  swiftly  to  the  table  and  pointed  di 
rectly  to  a  small  red  box. 

There,  in  a  cotton-lined  compartment,  alone  by 
itself,  transparent,  .flawless,  rose  red  and  vivid 
green,  lay  "Stonie!"  We,  who  had  known  the 
stone  so  well,  could  never  mistake  it.  There  were 
other  tourmalines  in  the  box;  all  of  them  looked 
like  ours ;  but  of  none  of  them  could  we  be  sure, 
except  Stonie.  It  was  the  only  one  which  had 
both  terminations  complete.  It  was  the  only  one 
which  had  the  layer  of  solid  white,  the  "crown." 

"King  still,"  was  all  that  Ally  said.  She  was 
moved  to  her  heart's  depths. 

We  were  all  deeply  stirred  at  this  mysterious  in 
cident.  All  that  we  could  learn  from  the  persons 
in  charge  was,  that  these  minerals  had  been  bought 


264  MY  TOURMALINE. 

by  the  Austrian  Government  in  Holland.  They 
had  belonged  to  the  antiquary  Van  der  Null ;  and 
this  box  of  tourmalines  was  labeled  simply  "from 
America." 

"  Could  any  of  the  stones  be  bought  ? "  we  asked. 

"  Nothing  was  less  likely,"  we  were  told.  "  The 
Imperial  Museum  did  not  trade." 

"  Oh,  Will,  I  can't  leave  Stonie,"  pleaded  Ally. 

"  You  shall  have  him,  love,  if  I  can  buy  him  and 
have  money  enough  left  to  take  care  of  you  with," 
whispered  I. 

What  I  paid  to  the  illustrious  Government  of 
Austria  to  buy  back  our  own  tourmaline  I  would 
rather  not  tell.  However,  the  sum,  though  large 
for  me,  was  small  to  them,  and  I  know  very  well 
the  stone  was  not 'bought  so  much  by  money  as  by 
Ally's  eyes,  and  by  the  sweet  voice  and  looks  with 
which  she  told  the  whole  story  to  the  Baron  Roe- 
derer,  who  introduced  me  to  his  cousin,  the  di 
rector  of  the  Museum. 

Stonie  is  very  safe  now  ;  he  is  locked  up  every 
night  in  a  tiny  jewel-box,  which  is  also  of  tour 
maline,  and  has  a  bit  of  history  of  its  own.  It  is 
an  exquisite  thing,  made  of  thin  layers  of  amber 
and  yellow  tourmaline,  fastened  at  the  corners  by 
curious  gold  clamps,  with  serpents'  heads.  Jim 
sent  it  to  Ally  on  the  anniversary  of  our  wedding 
day.  In  the  letter  accompanying  it  he  wrote  :  — 

"  I  send  you  a  magic  box  to  keep  Stonie  in.  It 
ilso  is  tourmaline.  You  see  I  can't  escape  the 


MY  TOURMALINE.  26$ 

mineral  any  more  than  you.  Ceylon  is  full  of  them. 
This  box  was  made  by  my  most  devoted  lover  and 
convert,  Phaya  Si  Zai.  He  sat  on  the  veranda  of 
my  cottage  every  day  last  week,  tinkering  away  on 
it.  That  is  the  way  the  native  jewelers  do  here. 
They  bring  their  little  furnaces  and  tools,  squat  on 
your  veranda,  and  make  your  jewelry  under  your 
eye.  Phaya  will  not  take  a  cent  for  making  this 
box,  though  it  has  cost  him  six  days'  work.  The 
chasing,  you  will  see,  is  very  finely  done.  He  has 
seen  your  picture  hanging  in  my  room,  and  when  I 
showed  him  the  stones  and  asked  him  if  a  box 
could  be  made  of  them  for  the  pretty  lady  with 
gold  hair,  he  said,  eagerly  :  '  Yes,  yes.  Me  make, 
me  make.'  When  he  brought  it  to  me  just  now  he 
said  :  '  Lady  of  gold  hair  —  this  —  Phaya  kiss  the 
hands  —  stones  make  lady  see  Phaya;  see  good 
brother.'  So  you  see  even  the  Ceylonese  know 
the  spell  of  the  tourmaline." 

Our  little  girl  seems  to  have  the  same  love  for 
and  relation  with  the  stones  that  her  mother  had. 
She  will  play  with  them  for  hours,  as  Ally  did  when 
she  lay  in  her  little  bed,  under  the  abutilon-tree,  in 
the  parsonage  parlor.  The  child's  name  is  Alice; 
but  I  have  fallen  into  the  way  of  calling  her  "  Tour- 
mie,"  and  strangers  stare  when  they  ask  what  that 
means,  and  I  reply  :  "  Short  for  Tourmaline." 


JOE    KALE'S    RED    STOCKINGS 


IT  was  a  hot  day  in  August,  and  it  was  hotter  in 
the  linen  room  of  the  Menthaven  Hospital  than  it 
was  anywhere  else  on  the  New  England  shore.  At 
least  so  thought  Netty  Lamed,  as  she  sank  back  in 
her  chair,  —  if  one  can  sink  back  in  a  wooden 
chair,  —  and  exclaimed  :  — 

"Thank  heaven,  the  last  of  those  stockings  is 
darned." 

Sarah  Lincoln  and  her  cousin,  Netty  Larned5  in 
a  fit  of  mingled  patriotism  and  romance,  had  under- 
••aken  the  charge  of  the  linen  room  in  the  Mentha 
ven  Hospital  for  the  summer.  Their  cousin,  Clara 
Winthrop,  was  superintending  the  diet  kitchen,  and 
Rebecca  Jones  and  Mrs.  Kate  Seeley,  and  several 
more  of  Menthaven's  "first  ladies,"  were  nursing 
in  the  wards.  It  was  in  the  second  year  of  our 
war ;  just  at  the  time  when  the  fever  of  enthusiastic 
work  for  the  soldiers  and  the  cause  was  at  its 
greatest  and  most  unreasonable  height  among  the 
nromen  of  the  North.  Not  to  be  sacrificing  one's 


JOE  HALF'S  RED  STOCKINGS.  267 

self  in  some  way  on  the  shrine  of  the  country's 
need  seemed  to  prove  one  to  be  next  door  to  a 
traitor  —  in  fact  worse.  It  seems  ungracious,  even 
at  this  distance  of  time,  to  call  in  question  either 
the  motives  or  the  results  of  this  great  outburst  on 
the  part  of  the  women ;  but  no  one  who  was  famil 
iar,  in  even  a  small  degree,  with  the  practical 
results  in  many  of  our  hospitals  of  the  average 
headlong  enthusiasm  of  the  average  woman,  will 
deny  that  in  very  many  instances  it  could  have 
been  advantageously  dispensed  with. 

The  meek  and  satirical  gratitude  of  the  soldier 
who,  being  inquired  of  by  one  of  these  restless 
benevolences,  if  she  should  comb  his  hair  for  him, 
replied:  "Thank  you,  rna'am,  you  can  if  you  want 
to ;  there  's  nineteen  ladies  has  done  it  already  to 
day,"  pointed  a  moral  which  was  too  generally 
overlooked. 

Some  dim  suspicions  as  to  the  common  sense  of 
their  work  had  more  than  once  crossed  the  minds 
of  both  Sarah  Lincoln  and  Netty  Larned.  They 
were  clear-headed,  energetic  women,  without  a 
trace  of  sentimentalism  about  them.  It  had  ap 
peared  to  them  in  the  outset  that  there  was  a  grand 
field  of  work  in  the  Menthaven  Hospital,  and  that 
it  was  clearly  the  duty  of  the  Menthaven  women  to 
take  hold  of  it.  Being,  as  I  say,  clear-headed,  they 
had  too  distinct  a  consciousness  of  their  incapacity 
as  nurses,  to  undertake  ward  work ;  in  fact,  when 
they  came  to  discuss  seriously  what  they  could  do. 


268  JOE  HAL&S  RED  STOCKINGS. 

the  charge  of  the  linen  room  was  the  only  thing 
they  were  not  afraid  to  undertake. 

"I  can  keep  things  in  order,  and  mend,  and 
make  out  lists,  and  give  out  clothes,"  said  Netty  ; 
"  and  that 's  about  all  I  can  do  and  be  sure  of 
doing  it  well." 

"  I  think  so  too,"  said  Sarah,  "  and  we  '11  take  it 
together,  and  then  we  can  change  with  each  other 
and  have  a  day's  rest  now  and  then  ;  we  shall  not 
be  very  busy,  and  one  or  the  other  of  us  can  go 
about  in  the  wards  and  write  letters  for  the  men,  or 
help  the  nurses.  But  I  would  n't  take  any  respon 
sibility  about  them  for  anything." 

"  Nor  I  either,"  said  Netty. 

But  when  they  saw  Clara  Winthrop,  who  had 
never  in  her  life  cooked  anything  more  nutritious 
than  sponge-cake,  and  who  was  used,  in  her  father's 
house,  to  having  four  servants  at  her  command, 
gravely  assuming  the  entire  control  of  the  diet 
kitchen ;  and  flighty  Mrs.  Kate  Seely,  who  could 
not  even  be  trusted  with  her  own  baby  when  it  had 
croup,  installed  as  head  nurse  in  one  of  the  largest 
wards,  Sarah  and  Netty  looked  at  each  other,  and 
said,  in  the  expressive  New  England  vernacular,  — 

"  Did  you  ever  !  " 

And  when  they  saw,  day  by  day,  the  sentry  op 
posite  their  linen  room  door,  simply  overborne  and 
disregarded  by  numbers  of  most  respectable  women 
of  their  own  acquaintance  filing  in,  with  baskets  of 
til  sorts  of  edibles,  proper  and  improper,  which 


JOE  HALES  RED  STOCKINGS.  269 

they  proposed  to  distribute  indiscriminately  among 
the  patients,  they  looked  at  each  other  again  and 
again,  and  said  :  — 

"Would  you  have  believed  women  were  such 
geese  ? " 

"  Did  you  tell  those  women  that  Doctor  Hale's 
strict  orders  were  that  no  one  should  be  admitted 
to  the  wards  without  a  pass  from  him  ?  "  exclaimed 
Sarah  one  day,  indignantly,  to  the  sentry. 

"Indeed  ma'am,  and  I  did,"  he  replied,  "but  it 
did  n't  stop  her.  She  said  she  knew  Doctor  Hale 
very  well,  and  he  would  let  her  go  in." 

"  But  they  must  not  go  in,"  persisted  Sarah.  "  It 
is  against  orders." 

"  What  am  I  to  do  ma'am  ? "  said  the  sentry. 

"  Put  your  bayonet  straight  across  the  door,  and 
hold  it  there,  John,"  said  Sarah. 

"  Ah,  ma'am,  an'  I  could  n't  to  a  woman.  If  it 
was  a  man  I  could ;  but  I  could  n't  to  a  woman. 
Besides,  she  'd  jump  over." 

The  next  time,  however,  John  tried  it.  Sarah 
heard  a  parley  and  flew  to  her  door  to  reenforce 
John  by  the  moral  support  of  her  countenance. 

What  to  her  horror  did  she  see  ?  Her  own  aunt, 
Mrs.  Winthrop,  red  with  rage,  and  Clara  behind 
her,  both  abusing  the  poor  sentry  in  no  measured 
terms,  and  threatening  to  report  him  for  insolence. 

"  I  am  in  charge  of  the  diet  kitchen,"  said  Clara, 
"  and  my  mother  can  go  where  she  pleases  in  this 
Hospital." 


JOE  HALKS  RED  STOCKINGS. 

John  lowered  his  bayonet,  and  the  two  angry 
women  walked  past  him,  darting  withering  glances 
at  his  discomfited  face. 

"  It 's  no  use,  Netty,"  said  Sarah  after  this.  "  It 's 
no  use.  I  do  believe  that  ninety-nine  women  out 
of  a  hundred  are  absolutely  destitute  of  logic.  If 
you  were  to  talk  to  Clara  till  the  millennium,  you 
could  never  make  her  see  that  her  being  in  charge 
of  the  diet  kitchen  gives  her  no  right  to  break 
Doctor  Kale's  rules." 

As  week  after  week  went  by,  and  Sarah  and 
Netty  set  in  the  two  hard  wooden  chairs  in  the 
linen  room,  mending,  mending,  mending,  eight 
hours  a  day.  there  began,  as  I  said,  to  cross  their 
minds  a  dim  distrust  of  the  common  sense  of  their 
proceedings. 

"  How  much  do  you  suppose  I  have  saved  the 
United  States  Government  by  mending  that  stock 
ing  ? "  said  Netty,  one  day,  holding  up  on  her  little 
round  fist  a  stocking  whose  foot  was  one  solid  mass 
of  darns. 

Sarah  laughed.  "Oh,  Netty,"  she  said,  "what 
did  you  mend  that  for  ?  It  was  n't  worth  it." 

"I  know  that  as  well  as  you  do,"  retorted  Netty. 
*  But  we  have  barely  enough  to  go  round,  and  to 
morrow 's  Saturday.  I  did  hope  that  box  from 
Provincetown  would  have  had  some  stockings  in  it, 
but  there  was  only  one  pair.  Look  at  them  !  "  and 
Netty  held  up  a  pair  of  socks  knit  of  fine  scarlet 
vorsted  on  very  fine  needles.  They  were  really 


JOE  ff  ALE'S  RED  STOCKINGS.  2^\ 

beautiful  socks,  barring  the  color,  which  was  a  fiery 
yellow  scarlet,  but  one  remove  from  orange. 

"  Goodness  !  "  exclaimed  Sarah.  "  What  lunatic 
ever  knit  those  stockings  ?  I  don't  believe  a  man 
in  this  hospital  would  put  them  on  ;  do  you  ?  " 

"No,"  said  Netty.  "It  wouldn't  be  any  use  to 
offer  them  to  them.  I  '11  put  them  at  the  bottom  of 
the  pile."  As  she  slipped  them  under,  she  felt 
something  in  the  toe  of  one.  "  Why,  there  is  some 
thing  in  the  toe,"  she  said,  and  turned  the  stocking 
wrong  side  out.  A  small  bit  of  pink  paper,  folded 
many  times,  fell  to  the  floor.  Netty  picked  it  up 
and  unfolded  it.  It  was  a  half  sheet  of  pink  note 
paper,  with  a  little  stamped  Cupid  at  top.  In  the 
middle  of  the  sheet  was  written  in  a  cramped  but 
neat  hand  — 

"Miss  Matilda  Bennet, 

"  Provincetown, 

"Mass." 

Netty  exclaimed  as  she  read  this:  "Why,  how 
queer  !  Some  girl  's  put  her  name  in  here.  Whi/ 
do  you  suppose  she  did  that  for  ?  "  and  she  read  it 


"Miss  Matilda  Bennet, 

"  Provincetown, 

"  Mass." 

1  What  could  she  have  done  it  for  ?  "      I  wondei 
if  she  knit  the  stockings  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  she  has  a  brother  or  lover  in  the  war 
ind  does  n't  know  where  he  may  be,  and  thought 


2/2  JOE   HALE'S  RED  STOCKINGS. 

the  stockings  might  happen  to  hit  him,"  said  Saiah. 
reaching  out  her  hand  for  the  paper,  and  looking 
at  it  curiously.  "  Is  n't  it  odd  ?  Who  knows,  now, 
but  the  man  she  meant  that  for  may  be  in  this  very 
hospital !  " 

"  I  guess  not,"  said  Netty.  "  There  is  n't  a  sin 
gle  Massachusetts  man  here.  They  're  mostly  from 
New  York,  and  Maine,  and  Connecticut,  so  far  as 
I  have  found  out.  I  suppose  I  'd  better  put  it 
back,"  she  said,  folding  the  paper  up,  and  holding 
the  stocking  open. 

"Yes,  indeed,"  said  Sarah.  "Put  it  back,  by 
all  means.  Who  knows  what  '11  come  of  it.  It  's 
something  like  a  letter  in  a  bottle  at  sea !  " 

"  What !  "  exclaimed  Netty,  in  unutterable  amaze 
ment;  "like  a  bottle  at  sea!  What's  the  matter 
with  you  ?  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

Sarah  colored  :  hidden  very  deep  in  her  heart 
she  had  a  vein  of  romance  which  did  not  show  on 
the  surface  of  her  shrewd,  active  nature,  and  which 
never  took  form  in  words. 

"  Why,  I  mean,  "  she  replied,  "  that  it  is  trusting 
a  thing  to  just  as  blind  chance  to  stick  it  in  a  stock 
ing  and  send  it  to  the  Sanitary  Commission  to  be 
allotted  to  any  hospital  between  Maine  and  Missis 
sippi,  as  it  is  to  cork  it  in  a  bottle  and  toss  it  out  in 
the  Atlantic  Ocean.  Of  course  that  girl  put  that 
name  in  that  stocking  to  reach  somebody,  and  I 
just  hope  it  will  reach  him.  I  don't  suppose  it 
ever  will,  though,  and  yet,  I  imagine  stranger  things 
6ave  happened. " 


JOE  HALES  RED  STOCKINGS.  2/3 

"  Perhaps  she  put  it  in  just  for  fun,"  said  Netty, 
as  she  pushed  the  little  roll  of  paper  tight  down 
again  into  the  stocking  from  which  she  had  taken 
it.  "  I  think  that  's  quite  as  likely.  " 

"  Why,  I  don't  see  any  fun  in  it,"  said  Sarah. 

"  Nor  I  either,"  replied  Netty ;  "  but  then  things 
may  seem  funny  in  Provincetown  which  would  n't 
anywhere  else.  It 's  a  real  New  England  name, 
'  Matilda  Bennet. '  I  wonder  how  she  looks.  An 
old  maid,  I  guess.  I  don't  know  why  I  think  so." 

"  Well,  if  she  did  it  for  fun,  as  you  say,  it 's  more 
likely  to  be  a  young  girl,"  said  Sarah.  "  A  girl  too 
young  to  think  whether  it  were  proper  or  not." 

Early  every  Saturday  morning  clean  clothes 
were  given  out  in  the  hospital.  All  the  convales 
cent  men  who  were  able  came  for  their  own  ;  and 
the  ward  nurses  came  for  what  they  needed  for  the 
nen  who  were  in  bed.  It  was  always  an  interest- 
<ng  day  to  Netty  and  Sarah.  They  liked  to  survey 
the  faces  of  the  men,  and  to  watch  their  behavior 
as  they  received  the  clothes.  It  was  pathetic  to 
see  the  importance  which  the  little  incident  as 
sumed  in  the  lives  of  some  of  them,  the  child-like 
pleasure  they  would  show  in  an  especially  nice 
garment,  the  difficulty  they  would  find  in  selecting 
a  pocket-handkerchief.  The  stockings  were  Netty's 
especial  department ;  and  she  had  endless  amuse 
ment  on  the  subject  of  sizes. 

"  Never  yet  did  I  hand  a  man  a  pair  of  stockingSj 
*he  said,  "  that  he  did  n't  look  at  them,  turn  them 
18 


274  7°E  KALE'S  RED  STOCKINGS. 

over,  and  hand  them  back  to  me,  and  say  he  'd  like 
a  pair  either  a  little  longer  or  a  little  shorter.  It 's 
too  droll." 

On  this  particular  Saturday  morning,  Netty  was 
much  afraid  the  stockings  would  not  hold  out  to  go 
round.  One  or  two  pairs  had  come  out  of  the  wash 
so  hopelessly  ragged  that  even  her  patience  had 
not  been  equal  to  the  trials  of  mending  them  ;  and 
the  washerwomen  were  still  in  arrears  with  part  of 
the  wash,  so  that  the  piles  on  the  stocking  shelf 
looked  ominously  low.  By  noon  there  were  not  a 
dozen  pairs  left. 

"  I  'm  going  to  begin  to  offer  the  scarlet  ones, 
now,  "  said  Netty.  "  It 's  a  shame  not  to  use  them, 
they  're  so  nice.  Perhaps  I  can  put  them  off  on 
somebody  who  is  color-blind." 

No  man  so  color-blind  as  not  to  be  startled  at 
that  flaming  red!  Man  after  man  refused  them. 
Netty  held  them  out,  saying  with  her  most  winning 
smile,  "  Here  is  a  very  nice  pair  of  stockings;  per 
haps  you  like  red;"  but  man  after  man  replied, 
some  timidly,  some  brusquely,  that  they  'd  rather 
have  any  other  color.  At  last  came  a  man  who 
wanted  two  pairs,  —  one  for  himself,  one  for  the 
man  who  slept  in  the  next  bed  to  him,  and  was 
asleep  now ;  and  the  nurse  thought  he  'd  most  like 
ly  not  wake  up  before  night,  for  he  'd  been  taking 
laudanum  for  the  toothache. 

"  Here  's  my  chance,  "  thought  Netty,  and  laid 
the  red  stockings  on  the  pile  of  clean  clothes  to  be 
Carried  to  the  unconscious  victim  of  the  toothache 


JOE  HALES  RED  STOCKINGS.  2?$ 

"  I  suppose  he  '11  like  these  red  stockings  as  well 
as  any,  "  said  she,  quietly.  "  They  are  very  nice.'' 

The  man  looked  askance  at  them. 

"  Powerful  bright,  aint  they  ?  I  should  n't  like 
'em  myself ;  but  perhaps  he  won't  mind ; "  and  he 
walked  away  with  them. 

"  What  '11  you  wager  they  don't  rome  back  ? " 
said  Sarah. 

"  Nothing,"  said  Netty.    "  I  expect  them." 

The  afternoon  wore  on,  and  the  red  stockings 
did  not  come  back.  The  last  man  from  the  last 
ward  had  come,  taken  his  Sunday  ration  of  clean 
clothes,  and  gone,  and  not  a  single  pair  of  stock 
ings  was  left  on  the  shelf. 

"  Was  n't  it  lucky  I  put  those  red  stockings  off 
on  that  poor  toothache  fellow  in  his  sleep  ? " 
laughed  Netty.  "  I  should  have  come  one  pair 
short  if  I  had  n't."  The  words  had  not  more  than 
left  her  lips  when  a  shadow  darkened  the  linen 
room.  She  looked  up ;  there  in  the  door-way  stood 
the  man  who  had  taken  the  red  stockings  ;  he  held 
them  in  his  hand,  and  fidgeted  with  them  uneasily 
as  he  said  :  — 

"Sorry  to  trouble  ye,  marm,  but  Wilson's  waked 
up,  and  he  won't  have  these  stockings  no  how ;  and 
I  had  to  bring  'em  back,  if  it  would  n't  trouble  ye 
;t>o  much  to  change  'em  for  something  else ;  any 
thing  '11  do,  he  said,  that  aint  red." 

Netty  pointed  to  the  empty  shelf ;  "  I  'm  very 
sorry,"  she  said  ;  "  but  you  can  see,  that  is  my 
locking  shelf ;  I  have  n't  a  pair  left." 


2/6  JOE  BALE'S  RED  STOCKINGS. 

With  a  crestfallen  face  the  man  laid  the  stock 
ings  down  and  turned  to  go. 

"  Don't  you  think  he  would  rather  have  those 
than  none  ?  "  asked  Netty. 

"  No,  marm,"  replied  the  man.  "  He  said  he  'd 
rather  go  barefoot  than  wear  'em.  He  can  make 
the  ones  he  's  got  do." 

"  I  will  give  him  a  clean  pair  as  soon  as  some 
more  come  in  from  the  wash,"  said  Netty.  "You 
tell  him  he  won't  have  to  wait  till  next  Saturday ; 
by  Tuesday  we  shall  have  more  ;  "  and  she  put  the 
rejected  stockings  back  on  the  empty  shelf.  Sarah 
was  shaking  with  suppressed  laughter. 

"  Poor  Miss  Matilda  Bennet,"  said  she,  as  soon 
as  the  man  had  gone  away.  "  Her  red  stockings 
will  never  reach  their  destination,  I  fear.  Who 
knows  ?  Perhaps  the  very  man  they  were  for  has 
already  refused  them.  You  'd  better  mention  the 
card  in  the  toe  to  the  next  man  you  offer  them  to. 
You  might  hit  the  right  person." 

"  No,"  said  Netty,  "  I  shall  not  offer  them  any 
more.  I'll  give  them  to  a  poor  man  I  know  in 
town,  who  will  not  be  so  particular.  They  are 
really  beautiful  socks.  Any  gentleman  might  wear 
them." 

The  linen  room  was  darkened  again;  another 
tall  figure  stood  in  the  door-way.  It  was  Joe  Hale, 
the  tallest,  handsomest,  best-natured  man  in  the  hos 
pital,  —  favorite  alike  with  surgeons,  nurses,  and 
men ;  so  brave  while  he  lay  ill  with  a  terrible  wound 


JOE   HALKS  RED  STOCKINGS. 

in  his  shoulder ;  so  brave  when  the  arm  had  to 
come  off ;  so  jolly  —  which  was  the  best  bravery 
of  all  —  now  that  it  had  been  off  and  buried  for 
many  a  week,  and  he  was  only  waiting  for  his  dis 
charge  papers  to  come  from  Washington  before 
starting  for  home. 

He  stood  in  the  door-way,  twirling  his  cap  ner 
vously  in  his  right  hand ;  luckily  for  Joe,  it  was  the 
left  arm  which  had  gone. 

Netty  looked  up. 

"  What  can  I  do  for  you,  Mr. Hale  ?  "  she  said. 

"  Have  you  got  a  pair  of  red  stockings  here?" 
he  said,  and  a  gleam  of  respectfully  restrained  mirth 
twinkled  in  his  bright  blue  eyes. 

Netty  laughed  outright. 

"  To  be  sure  I  have,"  she  said,  and  took  them 
from  the  shelf.  "  Here  they  are.  I  can't  find  any 
body  who  will  wear  them." 

"  I  '11  take  them,"  said  Joe,  holding  out  his  right 
hand,  cap  and  all.  "  I  gave  mine  to  Wilson ;  he 
is  sort  o'  sick  and  fussy,  and  he  was  so  mad  with 
Craig  for  bringing  them  to  him,  it  seemed  to  quite 
upset  him  —  that  and  the  laudanum  together ;  so 
I  gave  him  mine.  I  had  n't  put  them  on ;  and  if 
you  have  n't  any  use  for  the  red  ones,  I  '11  take  them, 
and  obliged  to  ye.  Craig  said  they  were  the  last 
you  'd  got  left." 

"  So  they  are,"  replied  Netty,  laying  them  on 
tfie  cap  in  Joe's  hand.  "  I  'm  very  glad  you  don't 
dislike  red.  It 's  a  beautiful  pair  of  stockings." 


278  JOE  HALF'S  RED  STOCKINGS. 

"  Would  you  be  so  very  good,  ma'am,  as  to  just 
put  them  in  my  pocket  here  ?  "  said  Joe,  awkwardly. 
"  I  can't  manage  it  very  well." 

Netty  put  them  in  the  pocket,  and  with  a  military 
salute,  Joe  lifted  his  cap  to  his  head  and  walked 
away. 

"How  thoughtless  of  me,"  said  Netty,  "to  have 
laid  them  on  the  poor  fellow's  cap  in  his  hand ! 
He  could  n't  put  his  cap  on  without  their  falling  on 
the  ground.  Was  n't  it  nice  of  him  to  give  his  to 
Wilson  ?  I  don't  believe  he  likes  the  red  any  bet 
ter  than  the  other  men  did." 

"  It 's  just  like  Joe  Hale,"  said  Sarah. 

"  The  ward-master  in  his  ward  told  me  the  other 
day,  he  had  n't  the  least  idea  what  he  'd  do  when 
Joe  went  away.  He  said  he  was  equal  to  any  two 
nurses  in  the  ward.  I  've  a  notion,  though,  that  he 
has  a  great  fancy  for  the  color  red,  for  I  've  seen 
him  a  dozen  times  with  a  bit  of  red  geranium  or  red 
salvia  in  his  cap ;  he  always  picks  out  the  red  ones 
when  Mrs.  Winthrop  brings  her  flowers." 

Joe  Hale  was  a  methodical  fellow.  When  he 
was  preparing  to  go  to  bed,  he  laid  all  his  clean 
clothes  on  the  chair  at  the  head  of  his  bed  to  be 
ready  in  the  morning.  On  the  top  of  the  pile  he 
'aid  the  red  stockings. 

"  Hullo  !     Fire  away,  Joe  !  "  called  out  one  man, 

And  another :  — 

"  Warm  yer  toes,  Joe,  won't  they  ?  " 

And  another :  — 


JOE  H ALE'S  RED  STOCKINGS.  2 79 

"What  possessed  a  woman  to  knit  stockings  c' 
such  a  color  's  that,  do  you  suppose  ?  Why,  the 
turkey-cocks  '11  chase  ye,  Joe,  when  ye  get  them 
things  on." 

Joe  only  laughed  good-naturedly. 

"  Go  it,  boys,"  he  said.  "  I  can  stand  it 's  long 's 
you  can.  I  think  the  stockings  are  a  real  hand 
some  color." 

"  So  they  be,"  said  the  first  speaker.  It  was  the 
very  Wilson  who  had  rejected  them  with  such  scorn. 
"  So  they  be,  a  splendid  color  for  a  rooster's  wat 
tles  ;  that 's  the  only  thing  I  ever  see  sech  a 
color." 

Joe  took  one  of  the  stockings  up  and  began  me 
chanically  to  turn  the  heel  out ;  he  felt  the  paper 
in  the  toe,  drew  it  out  in  surprise,  looked  at  it,  read 
the  name,  and  slipped  the  paper  quickly  into  his 
pocket.  The  whole  thing  had  not  taken  a  minute, 
and  nobody  had  chanced  to  notice  it. 

"What  in  thunder  did  any  girl  go  and  do  that 
for  ?  "  thought  Joe. 

Presently  he  rose  and  walked  out  of  the  ward. 

"  Say,  Joe,  don't  leave  them  red  stockings  o' 
yourn  out  that  way ;  they  might  be  stole,"  called 
one  of  the  men. 

"All  right,  boys,"  he  said,  "laugh  away.  It's 
good  for  you  ;  cure  you  quicker  'n  medicine  ;  "  and 
Joe  walked  away.  He  wanted  to  look  again  at  the 
little  pink  paper.  Underneath  the  big  Ian- 


28O  JOE  H ALE'S   RED  STOCKINGS. 

tern  swung  at  the  door  of  the  surgeon's  room,  he 
stood  still  and  read  again  the  words  :  — 

"  Miss  Matilda  Bennet, 

"  Provincetown, 

"  Mass." 

He  looked  attentively  at  the  little  stamped  Cupid 
on  the  top  of  the  sheet.  Joe  had  no  experience  in 
mythological  art,  and  did  not  know  a  Cupid  when 
he  saw  one.  A  naked  baby  with  a  bow  and  arrow 
was  as  much  of  a  puzzle  to  him  as  an  unprecedented 
fossil  to  a  naturalist.  The  word  "  Provincetown  " 
also  set  Joe  to  thinking.  He  recollected  dimly 
how  on  the  map  he  studied  at  school  the  word 
Provincetown  stretched  away  from  the  tip  of  Mas 
sachusetts  out  into  the  blue  space  of  the  Atlantic 
Ocean  beyond.  It  seemed  to  fly  like  a  signal  at  a 
prow,  and  the  little  dot  which  represented  the 
town  had  been  half  on,  half  off,  the  coast,  he  re 
membered.  "  Poor  thing !  "  he  thought,  "  she  lives 
away  down  there.  I  wonder  what  sort  of  a  girl  she 
is,  and  what  she  ever  stuck  her  name  into  these 
stockings  for.  I  might  write  and- thank  her  for 
them." 

This  last  idea  Joe  dismissed  with  a  scornful 
laugh  at  himself  as  a  "  silly  booby ; "  but  he  folded 
up  the  little  pink  paper,  and  put  it  away  carefully 
m  his  big  leather  wallet 

Three  days  later  Joe  Hale  lay  flat  on  his  back 


JOE   H ALE'S  RED  STOCKINGS.  281 

delirious  with  fever.  He  had  been  devoted  in  his 
attentions  to  a  poor  fellow  who  was  dying  in  one 
of  the  outside  tents  from  a  gangrened  wound,  and 
in  some  way  that  subtlest  and  most  dangerous  of 
poisons  had  penetrated  his  veins.  For  several 
days  he  lay  at  the  point  of  death;  a  general  gloom 
pervaded  the  hospital  ;  the  surgeon-in-charge  him 
self  spent  hours  at  Joe's  bedside  ;  everybody  grieved 
at  the  thought  of  the  brave,  cheery  fellow's  dying. 
But  Joe's  time  to  die  was  a  long  way  off  yet ;  good 
blood,  and  a  constitution  made  strong  by  an  early 
out-door  life  on  a  farm,  triumphed,  —  to  everybody's 
surprise  and  joy.  Joe  began  to  get  well.  He 
was  as  weak  as  a  new-born  infant  at  first,  and  sat 
propped  up  in  his  bed  among  pillows,  fed  by  spoon 
fuls  at  a  time,  looking  a  strange  mixture  of  giant 
and  baby.  There  was  great  danger  of  Joe's  being 
spoiled  now.  it  became  such  a  fashion  to  pet  him. 
All  the  visitors  wanted  to  see  him ;  everybody 
brought  him  something,  generally  something  to  eat ; 
as  for  quince  marmalade  and  tamarinds,  for  years 
afterward  the  very  name  of  them  made  Joe  ill,  he 
had  such  a  surfeit  of  them  now.  Every  day,  as 
soon  as  his  too  generous  friends  had  left  the  ward, 
he  would  summon  the  boys  around  his  bed  and  dis 
tribute  his  supplies  ;  and  very  sumptuously  that 
ward  fared  for  a  good  many  weeks.  Foremost  and 
most  devoted  among  Joe's  admirers  was  Clara  Win- 
throp.  There  were  petty-minded  and  gossiping 
people  about  who  even  declared  that  Miss  Win- 


282  JOE  HALF'S  RED  STOCKINGS. 

throp  really  neglected  the  diet  kitchen,  she  spent 
so  much  time  over  "  that  Hale."  One  day,  early 
in  Joe's  convalescence,  Clara  went  to  the  linen  room 
and  called  Sarah. 

"  Come  here,"  she  said.  "  I  want  to  tell  you  some 
thing.  You  know  that  splendid  fellow,  Joe  Hale, 
that 's  been  so  ill.  Well,  he  is  n't  going  to  die.  He 's 
had  his  senses  perfectly  clear  for  two  days  now, 
and  Dr.  Wilkes  says  he  '11  pull  through." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  said  Sarah.  "I  saw  him  this 
morning  and  he  knew  me  perfectly." 

"Oh,  you  saw  him,  did  you  ?  "  said  Clara,  with  a 
little  dignified  surprise  in  her  manner. 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Sarah.  "Netty  and  I  have  seen 
him  every  day." 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Clara,  "  I  didn't  know  you  had  been 
seeing  him  all  along." 

Not  least  among  the  semi-comic  things  inwoven 
with  all  the  tragedy  of  hospital  life,  was  the  queer, 
sexless  sort  of  jealousy  which  women  unconsciously 
and  perpetually  manifested  among  themselves,  in 
regard  to  one  and  another  of  their  pet  patients. 

Clara  continued  :  — 

"  Well,  I  'm  perfectly  sure  that  he  is  engaged  to 
some  girl,  or  in  love  with  her ;  and  I  think  she 
ought  to  be  sent  for.  Thomas,  the  ward-master, 
has  been  telling  me  about  it.  Thomas  says  that 
all  the  time  Joe  was  out  of  his  head,  he  was  talk 
ing  about  a  Matilda  Somebody.  He  never  made 
*ut  the  other  name  ;  but  Thomas  says  he  'd  talk 


JOE  HALKS  RED  STOCKINGS.          283 

about  her  all  night,  and  about  red  stockings ;  was  n't 
that  queer  ?  Thomas  said  he  had  on  a  pair  and 
the  men  laughed  at  him  about  them.  Now,  don't 
you  think  we  ought  to  ask  him  about  the  Matilda, 
and  write  to  her  ?  " 

Sarah  opened  her  lips  to  say  hastily,  "  Oh,  I 
know  all  about  that,"  but  suddenly  recollecting 
Clara  Winthrop's  constitutional  inability  to  keep 
a  secret,  she  merely  said  :  — 

"  I  don't  think  he  would  like  to  know  he  had 
been  talking  about  his  affairs  that  way.  Joe  is  n  't 
like  the  common  soldiers  here  ;  he  is  a  very  dif 
ferent  sort  of  man.  I  should  just  ask  him  if  there 
was  any  friend  or  relative  he  'd  like  to  have  written 
to,  and  if  he  wants  to  have  her  sent  for." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Clara.  "  That  would  be  a  great 
deal  better.  I  '11  do  that,"  and  she  hurried  off,  to 
lose  no  time  in  following  Sarah's  advice. 

"  Why  did  n't  you  tell  her  ?  "  said  Netty. 

"Tell  Clara  Winthrop !  "  ejaculated  Sarah.  "I 
should  think  you  'd  known  the  Winthrops  as  long 
as  I  have.  Why,  I  wouldn  't  tell  her  anything  which 
I  should  have  the  slightest  objection  to  seeing  up 
in  posters  on  Main  Street." 

Netty  laughed. 

"  Oh,  that 's  too  bad,"  she  said.  "  Clara  would  n't 
tell  anything  that  she  thought  would  do  any  harm." 

"  I  dare  say  not,"  retorted  Sarah ;  "  but  she 
never  thinks  beforehand  whether  a  thing  will  do 
harm  or  not.  She  is  not  a  bit  malicious ;  but  she 


284  JOE  HALES  RED  STOCKINGS. 

does  twice  as  much  harm  as  if  she  we  e ;  a  mali 
cious  person  plots  and  plans,  and  has  intervals  and 
occasions  of  reticence ;  but  Clara,  —  why,  Clara's 
conversation  is  like  nothing  in  earth  but  a  waste- 
pipe  from  a  cistern ;  as  soon  as  it  is  full  it  over 
flows,  no  matter  where,  when,  or  on  whom.  Give 
me  a  good,  malignant,  intentional  gossip  any  day, 
rather  than  one  of  these  perpetual  leaky  people. 
What  do  you  suppose  she  '11  say  to  Joe  now  ? " 

"  Oh,  just  what  you  told  her   to,"  said   Netty. 

"  She  is  a  well-meaning  soul,  and  always  ready 
to  take  advice." 

"  After  all,"  said  Sarah,  "  we  don't  know  that 
Joe  never  heard  of  Matilda  Bennet,  except  in  that 
stocking." 

"  And  as  for  that  matter,"  continued  the  sensible 
Netty,  "we  don't  know  that  it  is  not  some  other 
Matilda  he  was  talking  about." 

"  No,"  said  Sarah,  "  of  course  we  don't.  I  never 
once  thought  of  that." 

"  Here  are  the  red  stockings  again,"  said  Netty, 
taking  them  out  of  the  basket  at  her  feet.  "  They 
don't  want  mending;  that's  one  comfort.  I  '11  lay 
them  up  till  Joe  gets  well ;  I  should  n't  wonder  a  bit 
if  he  fancied  them.  It  will  be  a  long  time,  though, 
poor  fellow,  before  he  '11  do  much  walking." 

That  evening  as  Sarah  and  Netty  and  Clara  were 
walking  home  from  the  hospital  together,  Sarah 
said :  — 

"  Did  you  write  a  letter  for  Joe  Hale  to-day?  " 


JOE  H ALE'S  RED  STOCKINGS.  28$ 

"  Ol.  !  "  exclaimed  Clara.  "  That 's  just  what  I 
was  going  to  tell  you.  It 's  the  queerest  thing  about 
that  Matilda ;  I  don't  believe  there  's  any  such  girl 
at  all.  I  guess  it  was  nothing  but  crazy  fancies. 
I  asked  him  this  morning  if  there  were  not  some 
one  he  would  like  to  have  me  write  to,  —  some 
body  who  could  come  on  and  stay  here  with  him 
till  he  got  well ;  and  do  you  think,  the  poor  fellow 
said,  *  Miss  Winthrop,  I  have  n't  a  near  relative  in 
the  world,  — nothing  nearer  than  a  cousin;  and  I 
don't  know  any  of  my  cousins  ;  they  all  live  in 
Iowa,  and  I  've  never  seen  one  of  them.'  Then  I 
said,  '  Well,  have  n't  you  some  friend  that  could 
come  ?  or  at  any  rate  that  you  'd  like  to  have  me 
write  to  ?  '  And  he  said, '  No,  I  have  n't  any  friend 
that  could  come,  unless  it  were  a  neighbor  of  mine, 
Ethan  Lovejoy,  he  might  come,  but  I  guess  I  don't 
want  him.  I  'm  getting  on  first  rate.'  *  Is  n't  there 
any  woman  ? '  I  said.  I  just  was  determined  to  see 
if  there  was  n't  something  in  it.  And  he  got  as  red 
in  the  face  as  if  I  'd  asked  him  something  improper, 
and  said  he,  '  Any  woman  !  Why  I  told  you  I  had 
n't  any  relative  in  the  world.  I  had  one  sister,  but 
she  died  when  I  was  little.  I  don't  remember  her  \ 
and  the  only  aunt  I  have  lives  in  Iowa,  I  told  you.' 
So  I  gave  up  then.  Is  n't  it  too  bad ;  the  poor 
lonely  fellow  !  I  'm  really  disappointed,  I  thought 
it  would  be  so  interesting  if  that  Matilda  should 
come  on,  and  we  could  see  them  together.  Per- 
oaps  there  has  been  something  in  it,  some  time  or 


286  JOE  HALF'S  RED  STOCKINGS. 

other  ;  but  it 's  all  broken  off  now.  If  it  was  only 
craziness  it 's  very  queer  he  should  stick  to  that  one 
name  all  the  time." 

Sarah  and  Netty  exchanged  glances,  but  said 
nothing ;  and  the  voluble  Clara  ran  on  and  on, 
with  her  loose-jointed  talk,  till  they  reached  the 
gate  of  her  father's  house.  After  she  had  gone  in, 
Netty  said  to  Sarah  :  — 

"  I  'm  going  into  that  ward  to-morrow  to  write 
letters  for  Wilson  and  Craig.  I  think  I  '11  offer  to 
write  a  letter  for  Joe,  and  see  what  he  says  to  me. 
I  think  it's  just  possible  he  didn't  want  Clara  to 
write.  She  always  thinks  that  she  knows  the  men 
better  than  anybody  else;  but  the  truth  is,  she 
does  n't  know  them  half  so  well  as  either  you  or  I. 
She  is  n't  quiet  enough  with  them." 

"Yes,  I  would  if  I  were  you,"  replied  Sarah; 
"but  you  mustn't  tell  Clara  if  he  does  let  you 
write.  She  would  be  vexed  about  it." 

"  No,  indeed,"  said  Netty,  "  I  won't  tell  her." 

While  Netty  was  writing  the  letters  for  Wilson 
and  Craig,  she  saw  Joe  Hale  watching  her  wist 
fully.  When  she  had  finished,  she  went  to  his  bed 
and  said :  — 

"  Is  n't  there  anybody  you  'd  like  to  send  a  letter 
to,  Mr.  Hale?  I  have  plenty  of  time  to  write 
another." 

Joe  glanced  to  the  right  and  the  left :  the  beds 
near  him  were  empty ;  no  one  was  within  hearing 
distance  of  a  low  tone.  Speaking  almost  in  a 
whisper,  he  said :  — 


JOE  H ALE'S  RED  STOCKINGS.  28? 

"  Well,  it  does  feel  real  lonesome  to  see  all  the 
boys  sending  off  their  letters  home  ;  but  the  fact  is, 
Miss  Larned,  I  have  n't  got  a  relation  to  write  to 
—  not  one." 

"  Oh,  I  am  perfectly  sure  your  neighbors  would 
be  very  glad  to  hear  from  you."  Netty  said,  cheerily, 

Joe  glanced  around  again,  and  then  speaking 
still  lower,  said  :  — 

"  No,  there  ain't  one  of  them  that  I  'd  bother  with 
a  letter.  But  there  is  a  letter  I  'd  like  to  send,  if 
you  think  it 's  proper,"  and  with  his  feeble  right 
hand  he  managed  to  take  from  under  his  pillow  the 
big  leather  wallet,  and  laying  it  near  the  edge  of 
the  bed,  he  tried  to  open  it. 

''Let  me  open  it  for  you,"  said  Netty.  "  Is  the 
letter  you  want  to  answer  in  here  ?  " 

"  'Taint  exactly  a  letter,"  said  Joe.  "  That 's  it," 
he  said,  pointing  to  the  little  bit  of  pink  paper  in 
one  of  the  compartments,  as  Netty  held  them  open. 

"  It  ain't  a  letter,"  he  continued.  "  It 's  only  a 
name.  It  was  in  one  of  those  red  stockings  I  took 
to  please  Wilson.  Do  you  remember  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  remember  all  about  it." 

"  I  did  n't  dislike  the  color,"  said  Joe,  "  though 
the  boys  did  make  most  too  much  fun  of  them. 
Well,  this  paper  was  in  the  toe  of  one  of  those 
stockings,  and  I  suppose  it's  the  name  of  the  girl 
that  knit  them.  Should  n't  you  think  so  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  think  it  must  be,"  said  Netty. 

"  I  've  been  thinking,"  said  Joe,  "  that  it  would  n't 


288  JOE  HALES  RED  STOCKINGS. 

be  any  more  than  civil,  seeing  she  put  her  name  in 
them,  just  to  write  and  thank  her  for  them.  May 
be  she  'd  like  to  know  the  name  of  the  man  that 
wore  them.  I  thought  may  be  it  was  some  little 
girl  that  would  be  pleased  to  get  a  letter  from  a 
soldier." 

"Why,  certainly,  Mr.  Hale,"  replied  Netty.  "I 
think  it  would  be  a  very  nice  thing  to  write  and 
thank  her  for  them.  I  dare  say  it  was  some  little 
girl  who  would  be  proud  enough  to  have  a  letter 
from  a  soldier.  What  did  you  say  the  name  was  ? " 

"It's  on  the  paper,"  said  Joe,  languidly.  He 
was  growing  tired.  "  Matilda 's  the  first  name.  I  Ve 
forgotten  the  last,  but  she  lives  in  Provincetown." 

"Miss  Matilda  Bennet,"  said  Netty,  reading  it 
from  the  paper. 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Joe,  "that's  it." 

Netty  wrote  the  address  on  an  envelope,  and 
then,  taking  a  sheet  of  note  paper,  looked  at  Joe, 
inquiringly,  and  said  :  — 

"  Well,  what  shall  I  say  ?  " 

"  Oh,  anything  you  like,"  was  the  embarrassing 
reply,  and  Joe  closed  his  eyes  with  an  expression 
of  perfect  content  and  assurance  that  all  would  be 
right. 

"  Why,  Mr.  Hale,"  she  said,  "  I  'm  afraid  I  don't 
know  what  to  say.  What  do  you  want  said  ?  " 

"Oh,  just  thank  her  —  that's  all,"  murmured 
Joe,  sleepily.  "  I  guess  it 's  a  little  girl.  I  suppose 
a  grown-up  woman  would  n't  have  sent  her  name 


JOE  HALES  RED  STOCKINGS.  289 

that  way,  would  she  ?  You  might  ask  her  to  write 
to  me.  Then  I  'd  have  somebody  to  write  to  me 
It 's  the  only  thing  makes  me  feel  lonesome,  when 
the  boys  all  get  letters." 

"  I  'd  better  write  in  my  own  name,  I  think,"  she 
said,  "  and  tell  her  about  you.  Shall  I  do  it  that 
way  ? " 

"There  isn't  any  use  in  telling  her  anything 
about  me,"  said  Joe,  more  energetically  than  he 
had  spoken  for  some  time ;  only  just  to  thank  her, 
-  that 's  all." 

This  is  what  Netty  wrote  :  — 

"  DEAR  Miss  BENNET  :  You  will  be  surprised 
to  receive  this  letter  from  an  entire  stranger.  Per 
haps  you  remember  putting  your  name  on  a  piece 
of  paper  in  a  pair  of  red  stockings  you  sent  to  the 
soldiers.  Those  stockings  came  to  this  hospital, 
and  were  given  to  a  soldier  by  the  name  of  Hale  — 
Mr.  Joseph  Hale,  of  New  York.  He  is  very  ill 
now>  —  not  able  to  sit  up ;  and  he  asked  me  to 
write  and  thank  you  for  the  stockings.  If  you 
would  like  to  write  him  a  letter,  he  would  be  very 
glad  to  hear  from  you.  There  is  no  greater  pleas 
ure  to  soldiers  in  hospital  than  to  get  letters  from 
friends.  Yours  truly, 

"  HENRIETTA  LARNED." 

The  coming  in  of  the  stage,  and  the  distribution 
of  the  mail  it  carried  were  the  great  events  of  eacn 
19 


2QO  JOE  HALE'S  RED  STOCKINGS. 

day  in  Provincetown.  When  the  stage  was  on  time 
it  got  in  at  six  o'clock ;  but  its  being  on  time  de 
pended  on  so  many  incalculable  chances  all  the 
way  along  that  sandy  promontory,  that  nobody  in 
Provincetown  thought  of  placing  any  dependence 
on  getting  his  letters  the  same  night  they  came. 
Least  of  all  did  the  Bennets,  who  lived  over  on 
Light-house  Spit ;  they  had  kept  the  light-house  for 
twenty-five  years,  —  ever  since  Matilda,  or  "  Tilly," 
as  she  was  universally  called,  could  remember.  It 
was  a  strange  life  that  she  had  led  on  that  lonely 
rock,  —  child,  girl,  woman,  she  had  known  nothing 
else.  Her  father  had  been  a  sea-captain.  He  had 
had  a  leg  broken  by  the  falling  of  a  mast  one  night 
n  a  terrible  storm  ;  had  been  brought  into  Prov 
incetown  harbor  with  the  leg  rudely  spliced  and 
lashed  to  a  spar,  and  had  never  walked  without  a 
crutch  again.  The  light-house  was  the  next  best 
thing  to  a  ship,  and  Captain  Bennet  was  glad  to 
get  it.  The  worse  the  storm,  the  more  the  old 
tower  —  none  too  safe  at  best  —  rocked,  the  hap 
pier  he  grew.  His  wife  used  to  say  :  — 

"  I  believe,  'Lisha,  you  '11  never  be  contenteo 
till  we  break  loose  here  some  night,  and  go  heao 
foremost  out  to  sea;"  and  the  old  man  would 
reply:  — 

"  Well,  Lyddy,  I  'd  as  soon  go  that  way 's  any. 
I  never  had  any  kind  o'  fancy  for  rottin'  in  a  grave 
yard.  The  sea 's  always  seemed  to  me  whole 
$omer ;  and  if  ye  could  manage  it  anyhow,  I  'd 


JOE  HALES  RED  STOCKINGS.  29 1 

like  to  be  buried  in  it  j  but  I  s'pose  ye  could  n't  fix 
it  so  very  well." 

Mrs.  Bennet  did  not  in  the  least  share  her  hus 
band's  love  of  the  water.  It  frightened  her,  and  it 
bored  her,  and  she  hated  the  isolation  with  which 
it  surrounded  her.  She  paced  the  narrow  sand- 
spit  which  linked  the  light-house  rock  to  the  main 
land  like  a  prisoner.  When  Tilly  was  a  baby  she 
carried  her  in  her  arms ;  as  soon  as  the  little  thing 
could  toddle,  she  led  her  by  the  hand  back  and 
forth,  back  and  forth,  on  the  narrow  belt,  always 
gazing  across  at  the  town  with  a  hungry  yearning 
for  its  streets  and  people,  and  with  a  restless  watch 
ing  for  some  boat  to  put  out  toward  the  light 
house.  The  child  soon  shared  her  mother's  feeling, 
and  the  earliest  emotion  which  Tilly  could  recol 
lect  was  an  intense  consciousness  of  being  impris 
oned.  In  the  summer  there  were  visitors  at  the 
light-house  almost  every  day.  All  travelers  who 
visited  Provincetown  came  over  to  see  the  beauti 
ful  Fresnel  light,  and  the  townspeople  themselves 
frequently  sailed  across  and  anchored  for  fishing 
just  beyond  the  spit.  These  visitors  were  Mrs. 
Bennet's  one  consolation  ;  by  means  of  them  she 
seemed  to  keep  some  tangible  hold  on  life  and 
dry  land  ;  and,  moreover,  they  were  the  only  foun 
dation  of  her  one  air-castle.  Poor,  lonely,  circum 
scribed,  discontented  woman !  she  had  but  one, 
yet  that  one  seemed  at  first  as  far  removed  from 
the  possibility  of  her  attaining  it  as  could  the  wild- 


JOE  HALF'S  RED   STOCKINGS. 

est  dream  of  the  most  visionary  worldly  ambition, 
Mrs.  Bennet  wanted  a  melodeon  for  Tilly.  When 
she  went  on  Sundays  to  church  in  Provincetown 
and  heard  the  first  line  of  the  psalm-tune  played 
over  and  over  on  the  wheezy  melodeon,  she  thought 
that  if  she  could  only  sometimes  hear  such  sounds 
as  that  in  the  light-house,  instead  of  the  endless 
boom  and  thud  and  swash  of  the  water,  life  might 
become  endurable  to  her.  She  had  a  marvelous 
knack  at  crocheting  mats,  tidies,  and  the  like  ;  and 
as  soon  as  Tilly's  little  fingers  were  strong  enough 
to  hold  a  needle,  they  were  instructed  in  the  same 
art.  In  the  long  winter  months  a  great  stock  of 
these  crocheted  articles  was  accumulated  to  be 
sold  to  the  summer  visitors.  Braided  rugs,  also, 
Mrs.  Bennet  made  to  sell,  and  bed-quilts  of  scarlet 
and  white  cottons  sewed  in  intricate  patterns.  The 
small  sums  thus  saved  she  hoarded  as  religiously 
as  if  they  were  a  trust  and  not  her  own.  She  did 
not  reveal  her  purpose  to  Tilly  for  years,  —  not 
until  the  child  herself  grew  impatient  of  the  mys 
tery,  and  of  being  told  that  it  was  "  for  something 
nice  "  the  quarters  and  half-dollars  were  being  put 
away.  When  Tilly  knew  what  they  were  for  she 
worked  harder  than  ever ;  and  at  last,  one  June, 
when  she  was  sixteen  years  old,  there  came  a  day 
• —  a  proud  day  for  Mrs.  Bennet  and  a  joyful  one 
for  Tilly  —  when  a  small  sloop  pushed  out  from 
the  Provincetown  wharves  and  made  straight  for 
the  light-house,  bearing  the  melodeon,  spick-span 


JOE  HAL&S  RED  STOCKINGS,  293 

new,  smelling  horribly  of  vainish,  and  not  much 
more  musical  than  a  jew's-harp ;  it  was  yet  beauti 
ful  beyond  words  to  the  two  lonely  women  who 
had  worked  so  many  years  to  buy  it.  In  Mrs.  Ben- 
net's  early  youth  she  had  made  some  pretense  of 
being  a  piano-player,  and  she  thought  that  she 
could  now  recall  enough  of  her  old  knowledge  to 
give  Tilly  the  elementary  instructions ;  but  she 
was  sadly  disappointed  ;  the  working  of  the  pedals 
was  a  hopeless  mystery  to  her,  and  the  action  of 
the  keys,  so  unlike  that  of  piano-keys,  threw  her 
all  "out,"  as  she  said.  "I  never  mistrusted  't  was 
so  different  from  a  piano,"  she  cried.  "  It 's  worse  'n 
a  sewing-machine." 

There  was  nothing  to  be  done  now  but  to  let  the 
child  go  to  Provincetown  to  be  taught.  Luckily 
the  purchase  of  the  melodeon  had  not  exhausted 
the  treasury  of  the  crochet  money.  There  was 
enough  left  to  give  Tilly  a  winter's  schooling  in 
Provincetown;  and  if  she  spent  more  time  over 
her  melodeon  than  over  her  arithmetic,  and  tried 
all  her  teachers  by  her  indifference  to  books,  it  was 
only  a  filial  carrying  out  of  the  instructions  of  her 
mother,  whose  last  words  to  her  had  been  :  "  Now, 
learn  all  you  can,  Tilly.  It 's  the  only  chance  you  '11 
get ;  but  don't  let  anything  hinder  your  learning  to 
play  the  melodeon." 

How  long  the  lonely  winter  seemed  to  Mrs.  Ben- 
net,  nobody,  not  even  her  husband,  knew.  For 
lays  at  a  time  all  communication  between  the 


294  JOE  H ALE'S  RED  STOCKINGS, 

light-house  and  the  town  was  cut  off,  and  the  pool 
mother  lay  awake  by  night,  and  walked  the  floor 
by  day,  praying  that  all  might  be  well  with  Tilly. 
But  when,  early  in  May,  Tilly  came  home  one 
afternoon,  looking  as  fresh  and  blooming  as  a  rose, 
and  sat  down  at  the  melodeon  and  played  "  The 
Soldier's  Joy,  with  Variations,"  Mrs  Bennet  was 
more  than  repaid  for  all  she  had  borne.  The  six 
months  had  told  on  Tilly  in  many  ways.  She  had 
smartened  up  in  the  matter  of  clothes ;  wore  bows 
like  other  girls,  and  liked  a  bit  of  color  in  her  hair ; 
had  learned  to  talk  in  a  freer  way,  and  could  even 
toss  her  head  a  little,  when  a  young  man  spoke  to 
her.  All  the  little  awkward  arts  of  the  Province- 
town  belles  Tilly  had  observed,  and  in  a  manner 
caught.  Yet  she  was  not  spoiled.  She  was  glad 
to  come  home  :  her  mother  was  still  more  to  her 
than  all  the  rest  of  the  world ;  and  when  Mrs.  Ben- 
net  saw  this  she  was  content.  Captain  'Lisha  took 
little  notice  one  way  or  another  of  either  of  them. 
His  heart  had  always  been,  and  always  would  be, 
on  the  sea.  He  tended  and  scrubbed  and  loved 
<-he  light-house  as  he  used  to  tend  and  love  his 
ship.  He  always  called  the  light  "  she,"  and  if  a 
point  of  its  machinery  seemed  clogged,  worried 
and  fussed  over  "  her  "  as  another  man  might  over 
a  woman  who  was  ill.  But  of  the  two  women 
whose  days  were  spent  on  this  rock  because  of  him, 
and  whose  whole  lives  revolved  around  him  as  hus 
band  and  father,  he  thought  comparatively  little, 


JOE  HALES  RED  STOCKINGS.  295 

They  were  housed,  fed,  clothed,  and  busy ;  what 
more  did  they  want  ?  They  seemed  good-humored 
and  contented ;  and  so  was  Captain  'Lisha. 

The  melodeon  made  a  change.  Captain  'Lisha 
had  a  better  ear  for  tunes  than  either  his  wife  01 
his  daughter.  His  whistling  was  worth  hearing, 
and  in  his  youth  he  had  sung  a  good  tenor.  When 
he  first  heard  Tilly's  little  feeble  tunes  mingling 
with  the  roar  of  the  wind  and  water,  he  laughed, 
and  thought  it  would  do  very  well  to  amuse  the 
women  ;  but  as  time  went  on,  and  Tilly,  who  prac 
ticed  with  an  untiring  faithfulness  worthy  of  a  bet 
ter  instrument  and  a  better  talent,  began  to  play 
something  finer  than  "  Fisher's  Hornpipe "  and 
"  Soldier's  Joy,"  the  old  man  came  to  take  pleasure 
in  it.  And  this  drew  the  three  nearer  together,  so 
that  after  the  melodeon  had  been  in  the  house  a 
couple  of  years  the  family  were  really  much  hap 
pier  and  had  more  animation  in  their  life. 

"  Practice  psalm-tunes,  Tilly ;  practice  psalm- 
tunes,"  her  mother  continually  said.  "  There  's  no 
knowing  what  may  happen,"  — by  which  Mrs.  Ben- 
net  meant  that  out  of  her  first  air-castle  had  sprung 
up  a  second,  in  this  wise :  who  could  tell  but  that 
some  day  Tilly  might  be  asked  to  play  the  melo 
deon  in  church.  The  Bennets  were  good  Meth 
odists  and  never  missed  a  Sunday  when  the  weather 
was  fair  enough  for  their  sail-boat  to  get  across  to 
'own.  The  melodeon  in  church  was  played  by  the 
minister's  wife ;  but  he  would  be  going  away  pretty 


2Q6  JOE  BALE'S  RED  STOCKINGS. 

soon,  —  his  two  years  were  nearly  up,  and  why 
should  not  Tilly  be  asked  then  to  take  Mrs.  Sharp's 
place  ? 

Into  the  placid,  monotonous  and  innocent  dreams 
of  these  lives  in  the  Provincetown  light-house,  the 
first  news  of  the  first  days  of  our  great  war  broke 
like  a  thunder-bolt;  nobody  in  all  these  United 
States  felt  the  shock,  felt  the  strain,  felt  the  power 
of  the  war,  as  did  lonely  and  inexperienced  women 
in  remote  places.  Every  word  of  news  from  bat 
tles  was  pondered  by  them  and  wept  over ;  long 
intervals  of  no  news,  harder  still  to  bear,  were  en 
dured  in  the  meek  silence  which  is  born  in  women 
who  live  in  solitude.  Tilly  and  her  mother  were 
not  exceptions  to  this.  They  were  transformed  by 
the  excitement  of  the  time.  The  melodeon  was 
shut,  and  for  a  few  weeks  Tilly  did  nothing  but 
implore  her  father  to  go  to  town  for  news  ;  and  on 
days  when  he  could  not  go,  she  watched  on  the 
rocks  for  the  sight  of  somebody  who  might  tell  her 
the  latest  tidings.  At  last,  one  Sunday,  when  the 
minister  called  from  the  pulpit  for  all  the  women  of 
the  church  to  meet  in  the  meeting-house  the  next 
day,  to  sew,  to  scrape  lint,  and  to  roll  bandages, 
Mrs.  Bennet  could  stand  inaction  no  longer. 

11 1  tell  you  what  it  is,  Tilly,"  said  she.  "  We'll 
go  home  and  cook  up  a  lot  of  things  for  your  father, 
and  then  we  '11  come  over  here,  and  just  stay  an' 
work  till  this  box  is  sent  off.  He  can  get  along 
ivithout  us  for  a  few  days.  It 's  the  least  he  can 
rlo." 


JOE  BALE'S  RED  STOCKINGS.  297 

Captain  'Lisha  made  no  objection,  and  on  Tues 
day  morning  he  took  Mrs.  Bennet  and  Tilly  over  to 
the  town,  and  left  them  there. 

Tilly's  cheeks  were  crimson  with  excitement.  She 
was  the  swiftest-handed  maiden  in  the  meeting 
house  that  week  •  and  her  mother  was  not  behind 
her.  When  on  Saturday  they  went  home  they  took 
with  them  an  enormous  bundle  of  shirts  to  be 
made. 

"  We  can't  be  idle,  either  of  us,"  said  Mrs.  Ben- 
net.  "  Can  we,  Tilly  ?  " 

"No,  indeed,"  said  Tilly.  "  I  wish  I  had  a  hun 
dred  hands." 

All  day  long  they  sewed,  saving  every  minute  of 
time  possible  from  their  household  toils. 

At  twilight  one  evening,  Tilly  said  :  — 

"  Oh  dear,  I  wish  we  'd  brought  over  some  yarn 
too.  There 's  just  this  time  between  daylight  and 
dark  when  we  can't  do  anything,  and  I  might  be 
knitting." 

"  So  we  might,"  said  Mrs.  Bennet.  "  We  have  n't 
got  any  yarn,  have  we  ?  " 

"  There  's  that  scarlet  worsted,"  said  Tilly.  "  I 
don't  see  why  that  would  n't  do.  There's  enough 
for  two  pairs  I  guess  ;  and  we  sha'n't  ever  use  it 
up  in  the  world." 

This  scarlet  worsted  was  one   of  good  Captain 

Lisha's  blunders.     He  had  been  commissioned  on 

a  certain  day,  to  buy  in  Provincetown,  a  few  ounces 

of   scarlet  worsted.      Mrs.  Bennet  wanted  it   for 


298  JOE  H ALE'S  RED  STOCKINGS. 

making  narrow  scarlet  edges  around  some  of  her 
tidies  and  mats.  Captain  'Lisha  had  made  the 
mistake  of  buying  pounds  instead  of  ounces,  and 
the  shop-keeper  had  refused  to  take  it  back  except 
in  exchange  for  other  goods  ;  whereupon  Mrs.  Ben- 
net,  not  wanting  any  other  goods,  and  wanting  the 
money  very  much,  had  lost  her  temper,  and  carried 
the  unlucky  worsted  home  with  her. 

"  It 's  pretty  bright,"  said  Mrs.  Bennet,  "  but  I 
don't  suppose  the  soldiers  '11  be  very  particular 
about  colors  ;  and  we  Ve  got  it,  that 's  a  good  deal ; 
't  won't  cost  anything.  I  guess  you  'd  better  set  up 
a  pair." 

So  Tilly  set  up  the  red  stockings  ;  and  after  her 
hard  day's  sewing  was  done,  she  used  to  take  the 
bright  knitting-work  and  go  out  and  sit  on  the 
rocks  and  knit,  till  her  mother  lighted  the  lamp  in 
the  kitchen,  and  her  father  lighted  the  lamp  in  the 
tower.  Then  she  would  go  in  and  sew  again  till 
nine  o'clock.  While  the  women  sewed,  Captain 
'Lisha  read  them  the  newspaper.  Since  the  war 
began,  Captain  'Lisha  sailed  to  town  every  day ; 
rain  or  shine,  blow  high  or  blow  low,  his  newspaper 
he  must  have.  In  the  old  times  he  had  not  cared 
if  he  did  not  get  it  for  a  week ;  and  sometimes 
when  they  had  accumulated,  did  not  even  take  the 
trouble  to  bring  the  whole  pile  home,  which  was  a 
sore  trial  to  his  wife  and  daughter. 

And  this  was  the  way  the  red  stockings  were 
knitted,  —  at  short  intervals  of  twilight  on  the 


JOE  HALKS  RED  STOCKINGS.  299 

rocks  ;  sunset  hues,  and  quivering  lights  on  the  fai 
ocean,  and  an  honest-souled  girl's  reveries  and  sor 
rows  about  the  war,  —  all  went  into  them  stitch  by 
stitch,  by  stitch.  What  put  it  into  Tilly's  head  to 
send  her  name  in  the  stockings  there  is  no  know 
ing.  She  said :  — 

"  I  do  wonder  what  poor  fellow  '11  get  these. 
I  'd  just  like  to  stick  my  name  in ;  it  would  seem 
sort  of  friendly,  would  n't  it  mother  ?  " 

"  Why,  yes,  Tilly,  I  'd  put  it  in.  Some  poor  fel 
low  might  be  real  glad  to  know  who  was  a-thinking 
of  him." 

And  Tilly  put  it  in.  And  the  big  box  from  Prov- 
incetown  was  sent  up  to  Boston  ;  and  from  the 
rooms  of  the  Sanitary  Commission  there  it  was  sent 
on  to  the  Menthaven  Hospital. 

One  darkish  night  at  Provincetown,  Captain 
'Lisha  was  just  on  the  point  of  going  home  with 
out  his  mail,  the  stage  was  so  late.  Not  being 
very  firm  on  his  legs  in  a  boat  he  did  not  like  sail 
ing  across  after  dark. 

"  Hold  on,  Cap'n  !  "  sang  out  Tommy  Swift,  the 
postmaster.  "  Hold  on,  I  '11  give  ye  your  mail  in 
a  jiff)  •-  here  she  comes." 

The  great,  creaking,  swinging  coach  rolled  up  to 
the  door  in  a  cloud  of  dust,  the  mail-bag  was  thrown 
from  the  top  of  the  coach  on  to  the  post-office  coun 
ter  by  a  dexterous  fling,  and  without  even  stopping, 
die  coach  rolled  away  again. 


3<X>  JOE  HALF'S  RED  STOCKINGS. 

The  Bennets  very  seldom  had  letters.  They  had 
a  daily  paper  from  Boston ;  and  they  had  a  good 
many  miscellaneous  newspapers  sent  them  by  a 
minister  uncle  of  Mrs.  Bennet's,  who  was  well  to  do, 
and  had  more  newspapers  than  he  knew  what  to  do 
with.  But  a  letter  was  an  event ;  and  a  letter  to 
Tilly  was  still  more  of  one. 

Captain  'Lisha  turned  Netty's  neat  little  letter 
over  and  over  again,  and  puzzled  his  brains  vainly 
trying  to  make  out  the  postmark  of  which  only  the 
"...  haven  "  could  be  read. 

"  There 's  lots  of  '  havens  '  all  over  the  country," 
thought  Captain  'Lisha;  "but  we  don't  know  any 
body  in  any  of  'em.  It 's  a  woman's  writing ;  it 
might  be  some  one  of  the  last  summer's  folks  writ 
ing  for  tidies." 

"  Here  's  a  letter  for  you,  Tilly,"  said  Captain 
'Lisha,  as  he  entered  the  kitchen. 

"  A  letter  for  me  !  "  cried  Tilly.  "  Why,  who  can 
it  be  from  ?  " 

"  I  was  a  wondering  myself,"  said  her  father. 
"  I  did  n't  know  you  wrote  to  anybody." 

"  I  don't,"  said  Tilly,  slowly  cutting  the  envelops 
with  a  case-knife. 

Mrs.  Bennet  dropped  the  skimmer,  with  which 
she  was  taking  doughnuts  out  of  the  boiling  fat, 
and  came  and  looked  over  Tilly's  shoulder. 

"  Oh,  mother,  mother !  The  doughnuts  will 
burn,"  exclaimed  Tilly.  "  I  '11  read  it  out  loud  to 
you ; "  and  she  followed  her  mother  back  to  the 


JOE  HALF'S  RED  STOCKINGS.  30! 

cooking-stove,  and  standing  close  by  her  side  while 
she  held  the  dripping  doughnuts  over  the  kettle, 
and  shook  them  up  and  down  on  the  skimmer, 
read  aloud  Netty's  letter. 

"  Well,  I  must  say  that 's  a  very  proper  kind  of  a 
letter,"  said  Captain  'Lisha  in  a  gratified  tone. 
"That  fellow's  got  the  right  feeling,  whoever  he 
is." 

"  What  a  pretty  name  Henrietta  Larned  is  !  "  she 
said.  "  How  pretty  it  looks  written  !  She  must  be 
real  nice,  I  'm  sure." 

"  Well,  the  man 's  got  a  nice  name,  too,"  said 
Mrs.  Bennet.  "  I  like  the  sound  of  his  name,  — 
Joseph  Hale.  That 's  a  good  name.  A  New  York 
man,  she  says  ?" 

«  Yes,"  said  Tilly,  slowly.  "  Perhaps  he  's  dead 
before  this  time.  She  says  he  was  too  sick  to  sit 
up." 

"  Ye  '11  answer  it,  won't  ye,  Tilly  ? "  said  her 
father.  "  'T  would  n't  be  any  more  than  civil,  just 
to  let  him  know  ye  got  his  message." 

"  I  don't  know,  "  said  Tilly,  very  slowly.  "  I 
hate  to  write  letters.  I  have  n't  got  anything  to  say 
to  him.  I  might  write  to  her." 

"  But  she  says  write  to  him,"  said  honest  Mrs. 
Bennet ;  "  she  says  they  're  so  glad  to  get  letters  in 
the  hospital.  Poor  fellows,  I  should  think  they 
would  be.  I  expect  hospitals  are  horrid  places. 
I  'd  write  to  him  if  I  was  you,  Tilly." 

"You  write,  mother,"  said  Tilly,  laughing.  "1 
don't  know  anything  to  say." 


3O2  JOE  H ALE'S  RED  STOCKINGS. 

"Me,  child?"  said  her  mother.  "I  have  n't 
written  a  letter  for  ten  years  ;  I  could  n't  write  ;  but 
I  think  you  ought  to.  He  might  be  a  waitin'  to  hear  ,• 
sick  folks  think  a  heap  of  little  things  like  that." 

"  Well,  I  might  just  write  and  say  I  'd  got  the 
letter,"  said  Tilly.  "Twas  real  pleasant  in  him 
to  send  me  the  message." 

"  Yes,"  said  Captain  'Lisha.  "  That  fellow's  got 
right  feelings.  I  tell  you  that." 

Tilly  carried  the  letter  into  her  little  bedroom 
and  stuck  it  into  the  looking-glass  frame,  as  she 
had  seen  cards  placed. 

The  next  morning  her  mother  said  :  — 

"  Now,  Tilly,  I  'd  answer  that  letter  if  I  was  you. 
It  is  n't  often  we  get  a  chance  to  hear  anything 
from  the  rest  o'  the  world.  I  wish  you  'd  write. 
Besides,  "  she  added,  "  after  sending  him  your  name 
so,  it  don't  seem  friendly  not  to." 

"That's  true,  mother,"  said  Tilly.  "1  never 
thought  of  that,  and  I  'd  just  as  lieves  write  as  not, 
if  I  could  think  of  anything  to  say." 

That  evening  after  all  the  work  was  done,  the  lit 
tle  kitchen  in  order,  the  lamps  lighted,  —  the  big 
one  for  the  great,  wandering  ships  at  sea,  and  the 
little  one  for  the  quiet,  humble  family  at  home,  — 
Tilly  took  out  a  small  papeterie  of  dark-blue  em 
bossed  leather,  and,  opening  it  with  a  sigh,  said :  ~^ 

"  I  '11  try  to  write  that  letter  now,  mother." 

"  That 's  right,"  said  her  mother.  "  I  'd  write  if 
I  was  you." 


JOE  HALF'S  RED  STOCKINGS.  303 

This  papeterie  had  been  Tilly's  one  Christinas 
present  the  winter  that  she  had  been  at  school  in 
town.  It  was  given  to  her  by  a  young  man,  who  in 
a  languid  and  shame-faced  way  had,  in  the  Province- 
town  vernacular  "  courted  "  her  a  little.  But  he 
had  never  found  courage  to  take  any  more  decided 
steps  than  to  give  her  this  papeterie  rilled  with  pink 
paper  and  envelopes  all  stamped  with  cupids,  which 
so  far  as  their  mythological  significance  was  con 
cerned,  were  as  much  thrown  away  on  Tilly  as  on 
Joe  Hale.  She  merely  thought  them  babies  with 
bows  and  arrows,  —  quite  ridiculous,  and  not  very 
pretty.  But  there  was  no  other  letter-paper  in  the 
house,  except  the  big  sheets  of  ruled  paper  on 
which  her  father  sent  his  official  reports  to  Washing 
ton,  and  Tilly  would  as  soon  have  thought  of  writ 
ing  a  book  as  of  writing  on  paper  of  such  size, 

It  was  very  hard  work  writing  that  letter.  Tilly 
could  not  think  of  anything  to  say.  She  spoiled 
several  sheets  of  paper,  and  at  last  the  poor  little 
letter  stood  as  follows  :  — 

"MR.  HALE: 

Respected  sir,  " 

This  last  phrase  was  suggested  by  Captain  'Lisha, 
on  being  consulted  by  Tilly  and  her  mother  as  to 
what  was  the  proper  form  of  beginning  such  a  let 
ter.  Captain  'Lisha  could  not  think  of  anything 
nore  appropriate  and  dignified  than  the  form  he 


304  JOE  H ALE'S  RED  STOCKINGS. 

himself  used   when  he   wrote  to    an  officer  of  the 
Light-house  Board. 

"  Respected  sir,"  therefore,  the  letter  began,  and 
continued  as  follows  :  — 

"  I  am  much  obliged  to  you  for  your  message. 
Please  thank  the  lady  that  wrote  it.  I  hope  you 
are  better  now.  We  had  the  red  worsted  in  the 
house ;  that  was  the  reason  the  stockings  were  that 
color.  I  knit  them  on  the  rocks.  We  live  in  the 
light-house.  My  father  keeps  it.  We  hope  you 
are  well " 

"  You  said  that  once  before,  Tilly,"  interrupted 
her  mother,  as  Tilly  read  the  letter  aloud. 

Tilly  looked  distressed. 

"  Oh,  so  I  did,"  she  said,  turning  back,  "  No, 
not  exactly.  I  said  I  hoped  he  was  better.  Won't 
it  do  ? " 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Mrs.  Bennet,  impatiently.  She 
was  quite  vexed  that  Tilly's  letter  did  not  sound 
more  like  the  elegant  and  flowing  epistles  which 
people  always  wrote  to  each  other  in  the  novels 
and  magazine  stories  with  which  she  was  familiar. 
"  I  suppose  it  will  do.  It  don't  seem  to  me  much 
of  a  letter,  though." 

"  I  can't  think  of  anything  to  say,"  reiterated 
Tilly,  hopelessly;  but  thus  adjured  and  coerced 
she  added  one  more  sentence. 


JOE  BALE'S  RED  STOCKINGS.  305 

"  It  is  very  pleasant  here  now ;  in  the  winter  it  is 
rery  cold." 

Then  there  came  another  interval  of  perplexity 
and  consultation  as  to  the  signature.  Captain 
'Lisha  had  nothing  better  to  offer  than  the  "  obedi 
ent  servant "  which  represented  his  own  relation 
to  the  officials  at  Washington.  But  to  this  Tilly 
stoutly  objected. 

"  I  ain't  going  to  say  I  'm  his  obedient  servant !  " 
she  exclaimed  defiantly.  "  I  '11  just  sign  my  name, 
and  nothing  more." 

"You  might  say  'your  friend,'  I  should  think," 
said  her  mother,  hesitatingly.  "  I  don't  think  any 
body  ends  off  letters  with  just  the  name.  I  never 
saw  one." 

"  Well,  all  the  letters  we  ever  have  are  from  real 
friends  or  relations,'-'  said  Tilly,  firmly.  "This  is 
very  different.  I  don't  suppose  it 's  often  anybody 
does  write  to  a  person  they  don't  know." 

Mrs.  Bennet  persisted  in  her  argument  for  a  more 
friendly  ending ;  but  on  this  point  Tilly  was  firm, 
and  the  queer,  stiff  little  letter  went  off,  with  its  in 
congruous  pink  cupids  hovering,  like  false  colors 
at  a  mast-head,  above  the  curt,  cool  sentences,  and 
the  brusque  signature,  "  Matilda  Bennet.  " 

After  the  letter  had  gone,  Mrs.  Bennet  frequently 
referred  to  it.  The  incident  had  really  stirred  her 
jinagination  more  than  it  had  Tilly's. 

"  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  that  soldier  wrote  to  you 
20 


306  JOE  HAL&S  RED  STOCKINGS. 

himself  some  day  when  he  's  a  gettin'  better,"  she 
said. 

"  Perhaps  he  died,"  said  Tilly ;  "  that 's  just  as 
likely." 

"I  suppose  'tis,"  replied  her  mother.  "But 
somehow  I  don't  feel 's  if  he  did.  I  wish  you  'd 
written  him  more  of  a  letter,  and  asked  him  to 
write  to  us.  It  would  be  real  nice  to  get  letters 
regular  from  somebody  in  the  war." 

"  Why,  mother !  "  exclaimed  Tilly,  "  perhaps  we 
should  n't  like  him  a  bit  if  we  knew  him  ;  we  don't 
know  anything  about  him." 

"  Well,"  said  Mrs.  Bennet,  "  I  don't  believe  that 
lady  would  have  written  for  him  if  he  had  n't  been 
a  real  good  fellow.  And  anyhow,  it  was  real  good 
his  thinking  to  thank  you  for  the  stockings." 

"Yes.  That  was  real  thoughtful  of  him,"  said 
Tilly,  candidly. 

How  would  both  Mrs.  Bennet  and  Tilly  have 
laughed  and  wondered  could  they  have  seen  Joe 
when  he  read  his  Provincetown  letter !  He  had 
looked  forward  to  its  coming  with  considerable  in 
terest.  More  than  once  he  had  said  to  Netty : 

"Do  you  think  she'll  answer  that  letter— that 
little  girl,  or  whoever 't  is,  in  Provincetown?"  and 
Netty  always  replied  :  — 

"  Yes,  I  rather  think  she  will,  before  long ;  I 
think  she  will  want  to  hear  from  you  again." 

When  the  letter  came  at  last,  Joe  was  really  as- 


JOE  HAL&S  RED   STOCKINGS.  307 

tonished  at  himself,  for  the  eagerness  with  which 
he  tore  it  open.  He  read  it  twice,  then  folded  it 
up,  laughing  heartily  as  he  did  so,  and  put  it  in 
his  wallet  in  the  same  compartment  with  the  first 
bit  of  pink  paper. 

"  Now,  I  guess  Miss  Larned  will  say  I  was  right," 
ne  thought.  "  If  that  ain't  a  little  girl's  letter,  I 
never  read  one,"  and  Joe  watched  impatiently  for 
a  chance  to  show  the  letter  to  Netty.  It  did  not 
come  for  many  days.  Netty  was  busy,  and  did  not 
go  to  the  wards  as  usual.  At  last  Joe  could  not 
wait  any  longer,  and  made  bold  to  carry  the  letter 
to  the  linen  room.  He  was  so  far  recovered  now 
that  he  walked  about,  and  in  a  very  few  days  would 
be  well  enough  to  go  home.  He  found  Netty  alone 
in  the  linen  room. 

"  Miss  Larned,"  he  said,  "  I  hope  you  will  ex 
cuse  me  if  I  interrupt  you.  I  Ve  had  a  letter  in 
answer  to  the  one  you  wrote,  and  I  thought,  per 
haps,  you  'd  like  to  see  it,  so  I  brought  it." 

"  Indeed  I  should,  very  much,"  said  Netty.  "  I 
was  wondering  the  other  day  whether  you  had 
heard." 

Joe  watched  Netty's  face  while  she  read  the  let 
ter.  The  amused  expression  which  stole  over  her 
features  as  she  read  did  not  escape  him.  His  own 
eyes  twinkled  as  he  held  out  his  hand  to  take  the 
letter,  and  said  :  — 

"  You  see  it 's  a  little  girl,  Miss  Larned.  I  '11  set 
all  the  more  by  them  stockings  for  that ;  could  n't 


308  JOE  HALES  RED  STOCKINGS. 

I  take  them  home  with  me  if  I  give  you  the  price 
of  another  pair  ?  I  'd  just  like  to  keep  them  always, 
to  think  of  the  little  thing,  sitting  out  on  the  rocks, 
knitting  away  on  stockings  for  the  soldiers." 

Netty  was  still  studying  the  letter.  She  was 
somewhat  familiar  with  the  constrained  and  reti 
cent  forms  of  rural  New  England's  letter-writing. 

"  I  'm  not  sure  yet  about  its  being  a  little  girl, 
Mr.  Hale,"  she  said.  "It  maybe;  but  I  incline 
now  to  think  that  it  is  a  grown-up  woman,  who 
hardly  ever  writes  a  letter." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  "  said  Joe,  earnestly.  "  Well, 
if  it 's  a  woman,  I  'd  like  first-rate  to  see  her.  I  Ve 
come  to  have  a  real  feeling,  as  if  I  ought  to  know 
her,  somehow." 

Netty  laughed, 

"Nothing  easier,  Mr.  Hale.  It  is  not  a  very 
long  journey  to  Provincetown,"  she  said. 

"That's  so,"  said  Joe;  "but  it's  the  last  place 
a  man's  likely  ever  to  go  to,  especially  from  New 
York  State." 

"  Sarah  !  I  do  believe  there  's  a  kind  of  romance 
growing  out  of  these  red  stockings,  after  all,"  said 
Netty,  when  Sarah  came  in.  "  Joe  Hale 's  been 
here,  and  showed  me  the  drollest  letter  you  ever 
saw,  from  that  Matilda  Bennet.  It  begins :  *  Re 
spected  sir,'  and  has  just  such  droll,  stiff,  short 
sentences  as  country  people  always  write.  He 
thinks  it  is  a  little  girl ;  but  I  don't  believe  it.  I 
did  n't  want  to  tell  him  so ;  but  I  Ve  a  notion  it 's 


JOE  HALES  RED  STOCKINGS.  309 

an  old  maid  —  a  pretty  old  one,  too.  Still,  some 
of  the  phrases  did  sound  simple  enough  for  a  child. 
Joe  wants  to  buy  the  stockings  and  carry  them 
home  with  him.  He  says  he  sets  a  store  by  them, 
because  this  little  thing  knit  them." 

"  Give  them  to  him,"  said  Sarah.  "  They  are  n't 
any  use  here ;  nobody  else  will  wear  them." 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  Ve  any  right  to  give  them 
away,  without  putting  another  pair  in  their  place," 
replied  Netty.  "  I  think  I  '11  let  him  give  me  a 
gray  pair  for  them.  He  seems  to  have  money  of 
his  own  ;  I  think  I  '11  let  him  buy  them." 

So  a  few  days  later,  Joe  set  out  for  home  with 
the  red  stockings  tucked  snugly  in  a  corner  of  his 
valise,  and  a  good  new  pair  of  gray  ones  in  their 
place  on  Netty's  stocking  shelf. 

*'  Dear  old  fellow,"  said  Netty  to  Sarah,  after  he 
had  bade  them  good-by ;  "  we  have  never  had  his 
like  in  this  hospital,  and  I  don't  believe  we  ever 
shall." 

"  His  like  is  n't  very  often  found,"  replied  Sarah, 
quietly.  "  I  consider  Joe  Hale  a  remarkable  man. 
If  he  had  had  education,  he  would  have  been  a  real 
force  in  the  world,  somewhere  ;  he  is,  as  it  is,  by 
the  sheer  weight  of  his  superb  physique  and  over 
flowing  good-heartedness  ;  but  I  'd  have  liked  to 
see  what  breeding  and  education  could  have  done 
for  him." 

"  Hurt  the  physique,  very  likely,  and  cooled  the 
good-heartedness,"  replied  Netty.  "  That 's  the 


3IO  JOE  HALF'S  RED  STOCKINGS. 

way,  too  often ;  but  I  don't  call  Joe  Hale  exactly 
an  uneducated  man,  Sarah." 

"No,  not  as  uneducated  as  he  might  be,"  replied 
Sarah.  "  He  is  just  the  sort  of  man,  so  far  ag 
education  goes,  which  America  is  filling  up  with 
fast ;  a  creature  too  much  informed  to  be  called 
ignorant,  but  too  ignorant  to  be  called  educated  in 
any  sense  of  the  word.  I  am  not  at  all  sure  that 
masses  of  this  sort  of  well-informed  ignorance  are 
desirable  material  for  a  nation." 

"  Oh,  you  traitor  fo  the  republic  !  "  cried  Netty. 

"  Yes,"  replied  Sarah,  severely  ;  "  my  countrymen 
prevent  my  thinking  so  well  of  my  country  as  I 
would  like  to." 

"  Walpole  said  that  better,"  retorted  Netty.  "  Of 
all  things  to  plagiarize  a  treason  !  " 

Joe  Hale's  home  was  in  Western  New  York,  in 
the  beautiful  Genesee  Valley.  His  father  had  been 
one  of  the  pioneer  settlers  in  that  region,  and  the 
log-cabin  in  which  Joe's  oldest  brothers  and  sisters 
had  been  born  was  still  standing,  and  did  good 
duty  as  a  wheat  barn.  The  farm  was  a  large  and 
productive  one,  and  the  Hales  had  always  taken 
their  position  among  the  well-to-do  and  influential 
people  of  the  county.  But  a  strange  fatality  of 
death  seemed  to  pursue  the  family.  Joe's  father 
was  killed  by  falling  from  a  beam  in  his  own  barn  ; 
and  Joe's  eldest  brother  was  crushed  to  death  by  a 
favorite  bull  of  his.  It  was  never  known  whether 
ttie  animal  did  it  in  play  or  in  rage.  Joe's  eldest 


JOE  HALES  RED  STOCKINGS.  31! 

sister  had  married  and  gone  to  Iowa  to  live ;  the 
other  had  died  when  Joe  was  a  little  boy,  and  Joe 
and  his  mother  lived  alone  on  the  farm  for  many 
years.  Mrs.  Hale  was  a  singularly  strong,  vigor 
ous  woman,  but  she  was  cut  down  in  a  single  week 
by  a  sharp  attack  of  pneumonia  the  very  spring 
before  the  war  broke  out.  This  left  Joe  all  alone 
in  the  world,  and  when  he  found  the  men  in  his 
town  holding  back  from  enlisting,  and  buying  sub 
stitutes,  he  said,  half  sadly,  half  cheerily,  "  I'm  one 
of  the  men  to  go,  that  's  certain.  There  's  nobody 
needs  me." 

And  now  after  one  short  year's  fighting,  he  had 
come  home  a  crippled  man,  to  take  up  the  old  life 
alone.  It  was  not  a  cheering  outlook  ;  and  as  he 
drew  near  the  homestead,  and  saw  again  the  grand 
stretches  of  old  woods  in  which  he  had  so  often 
made  his  axe  ring  on  the  hickory  trees,  Joe  thought 
to  himself :  — 

"  I  don't  know  what  a  one-armed  man  is  good 
for,  anyhow." 

The  cordiality  with  which  his  neighbors  wel 
comed  him  back,  the  eager  interest  with  which 
they  all  listened  to  his  accounts  of  the  battles  he 
had  been  in,  lessened  this  sense  of  loneliness  for  a 
short  time.  But  the  town  was  a  small,  thinly-set 
tled  one  ;  in  a  few  weeks  everybody  had  heard  all 
Joe  had  to  tell ;  nobody  said  any  longer,  "  Have 
you  seen  poor  Joe  Hale  with  his  one  arm  ? "  The 
novelty  had  all  worn  off,  the  town  went  its  way  as 


312  JOE  HAL&S  RED  STOCKINGS 

Defore,  and  Joe  found  himself  more  solitary  than 
ever. 

When  he  went  to  the  war  he  left  the  farm  in 
charge  of  a  faithful  laborer  who  had  worked  on  it 
for  years ;  this  man  had  married,  and  he  and  his 
wife  and  children  now  occupied  the  house  in  which 
Joe  had  lived  so  long  with  his  mother.  The  house 
was  large,  and  there  was  room  enough  and  to  spare 
for  Joe  ;  but  it  seemed  sadly  unlike  home  ;  yet  any 
other  place  seemed  still  more  unlike  home.  Poor 
Joe  did  not  know  what  to  do. 

"  You  '11  have  to  get  married,  Joe,  now,  and  settle 
down,"  the  neighbors  said  to  him  continually. 

"  Married  !  "  Joe  would  answer,  and  point  to  his 
empty  coat-sleeve.  "  That  looks  like  it,  does  n't 
it ! "  And  an  almost  bitter  sense  of  deprivation 
took  root  in  his  heart. 

One  night,  when  he  felt  especially  lonely,  he  went 
up  stairs  to  his  room  early.  He  sat  on  the  edge  of 
the  bed  and  looked  about  the  room.  It  had  been 
his  mother's  room.  All  the  furniture  stood  as  she 
had  left  it ;  and  yet  an  indefinable  air  of  neglect 
and  disorder  had  crept  into  the  room. 

"  I  can't  live  this  way,"  thought  Joe  ;  "  that 's  cer 
tain.  But  I  don't  suppose  any  woman  would  marry 
a  fellow  with  only  one  arm.  I  '11  have  to  get  a 
housekeeper ; "  and  Joe  ran  over  in  his  mind  the 
r.ames  of  all  the  possible  candidates  he  could  think 
of  for  that  office  ;  not  one  seemed  endurable  to 
nim,  and,  with  a  sigh,  he  tried  to  dismiss  the  sub- 


JOE   BALE'S  RED  STOCKINGS.  313 

ject  from  his  mind.  As  he  undressed,  his  big  wal 
let  fell  to  the  floor,  and  out  of  it  fell  Tilly's  little 
pink  letter.  He  picked  it  up  carelessly,  not  seeing, 
at  first,  what  it  was.  As  he  recognized  it,  he  felt  a 
thrill  of  pleasure.  There  seemed  one  link  at  least 
between  himself  and  some  human  being. 

"  I  declare  I  '11  write  to  that  child  to-morrow,"  he 
thought.  "  I  wonder  if  she  would  n't  like  to  come 
up  here  and  stay  a  spell  this  fall,  —  she  and  her 
mother,  —  and  get  away  from  those  rocks.  It  would 
be  a  real  change  for  them,"  thought  kind-hearted 
Joe.  "  I  guess  I  '11  ask  them.  I  reckon  they  're 
plain  people  that  would  n't  be  put  out  by  the  way 
things  go  here." 

And  somewhat  cheered  by  this  thought,  Joe  fell 
asleep.  In  the  morning  he  wrote  his  letter  and 
sent  it  off.  It  was  not  quite  so  stiffly  phrased  as 
Tilly's,  but  it  was  by  no  means  a  fair  exponent  of 
Joe's  off-hand,  merry,  and  affectionate  nature.  It 
answered  the  main  point,  however.  It  continued 
the  correspondence,  and  it  carried  Joe's  good  will. 

"Well,  really!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Bennet,  after 
Tilly  had  read  it  aloud  to  her ;  "  well,  really,  I  call 
that  the  handsomest  kind  of  a  letter;  don't  you, 
'Lisha  ?  Of  course  we  should  n't  think  of  going, 
but  I  think  it  was  uncommon  good  of  him  to  ask 
as  \  don't  you,  'Lisha  ?  " 

Tilly  said  nothing. 

"  Ye-es,"  replied  Captain  'Lisha,  slowly,  as  if  he 
were  not  sure  whether  he  intended  to  say  yes  or 


314  JOE   H ALE'S  RED  STOCKINGS. 

no.  "  Ye-es,  it 's  a  very  handsome  invitation,  cer 
tain  ;  nobody  can  dispute  that ;  but  it  seems  queer 
he  should  want  to  invite  folks  he  don't  know  any 
thing  about.  It 's  bounden  queer,  I  think.  Let  me 
see  the  letter."  Captain  'Lisha  straightened  his 
spectacles  on  his  nose,  and  read  the  letter  through 
very  slowly.  Then  he  folded  it  and  laid  it  on  the 
table,  and  brought  down  his  hand  hard  on  it,  and 
said  again  :  "  It 's  bounden  queer." 

Tilly  said  nothing. 

"  What 's  the  matter  with  you  ?  "  said  her  mother, 
a  little  sharply.  "  What 's  your  notion  about  it." 

Tilly  laughed  an  odd  little  laugh. 

"  He  's  got  the  idea  I  'm  a  little  girl,"  she  said. 
"  I  see  it  just  as  plain  as  anything.  That 's  what 
makes  him  write  's  he  does." 

"  No  such  a  thing,  Tilly,"  said  Mrs.  Bennet,  in 
an  excited  tone.  "  What  makes  you  think  so  ? 
I  'm  sure  I  don't  see  it." 

It  was  an  instinct  rather  than  a  specific  inter 
pretation  of  any  one  sentence  which  had  made 
Tilly  so  sure;  she  could  hardly  justify  it  to  her 
mother,  though  it  was  clear  enough  to  herself ;  so 
she  replied,  meekly  :  — 

"  I  don't  know." 

Mrs.  Bennet  snatched  the  letter,  and  exclaimed  : 
*'  I  '11  read  it  again  !  It 's  the  silliest  notion  I  ever 
heard  of.  I  don't  see  what  put  it  into  your  head, 
Matilda  Bennet !  " 

Tilly  said  nothing.  On  a  second  reading  of  the 
tetter,  Mrs.  Bennet  was  more  vehement  than  ever. 


JOE   FI ALE'S  RED  STOCKINGS  315 

"  It 's  no  such  thing  !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  Do  you 
think  so,  'Lisha?  Do  you  see  anything  in  it? " 

"  I  don't  know,"  answered  Captain  'Lisha,  slowly 
as  before.  "  It 's  bounden  queer ;  it 's  a  handsome 
invitation,  but  it 's  bounden  queer  ; "  and  that  was 
all  that  could  be  got  out  of  Captain  'Lisha. 

"  Well,  I  'm  goin'  to  answer  this  letter  myself," 
said  Mrs.  Bennet  resolutely.  "I  aint  no  hand  to 
letter-write  ;  but  I  'm  goin'  to  write  this  time  my 
self." 

"  Oh,  mother,  will  you  ? "  exclaimed  Tilly,  with 
great  animation.  "  That 's  good.  I  was  dreading 
it  so." 

"  Humph  !  "  said  Mrs.  Bennet.  "  When  I  was 
your  age,  I  'd  ha'  jumped  at  the  chance  of  getting 
letters  from  most  anybody,  ef  I  'd  ha'  been  cooped 
up  's  you  are  on  a  narrow  strip  o'  what 's  neither 
land  nor  water.  But  you  need  n't  answer  Mr.  Hale's 
letter  if  you  don't  want  to.  I  can  make  out  to 
write  something  that  '11  pass  muster  for  a  letter,  I 
reckon ;  and  I  think  the  man  's  real  friendly." 

"All  right,  mother,"  said  Tilly.  "  I  'm  real  glad 
vou  're  going  to  write  the  letter.  You  might  tell 
him  that  I  was  twenty-six  years  old  last  August,  and 
see  what  he  says  to  that  when  he  writes.  You  '11 
find  I  was  ^ght.  I  know  he  thinks  I  'm  a  little 
girl,"  and  Tilly  laughed  out  a  merry  and  mischiev 
ous  laugh. 

What  Mrs.  Bennet  wrote  they  never  knew ;  to 
neither  Captain  'Lisha  nor  Tilly  would  she  read  her 
tetter. 


316  JOE   H ALE'S  RED   STOCKINGS. 

"  Seems  to  me  this  is  a  mighty  thick  letter, 
wife,"  said  Captain  'Lisha  when  he  took  it  from  her 
hands  to  carry  it  to  the  office.  "  What  have  you 
been  sayin'  ?  " 

"Oh,  not  much,"  replied  Mrs.  Bennet.  "It's 
on  that  thick  paper  o'  yours.  I  just  thanked  him 
for  his  invitation  and  told  him  how  much  we  'd  like 
to  come ;  but  we  could  n't  think  on 't  —  and  a  few 
more  things." 

"The  "few  more  things"  were  the  gist  of  the 
letter.  After  the  opening  generalities  of  courtesy, 
which  Mrs.  Bennet  managed  much  better  than  Tilly 
had  in  her  little  note,  came  the  following  extra 
ordinary  paragraph :  — 

"  Tilly,  —  we  always  call  her  Tilly  for  short,  but 
her  name  is  Matilda,  same  as  she  signed  your  let 
ter,  —  she 's  got  it  into  her  head  that  you  thought 
she  was  a  little  girl,  from  her  letter.  Now,  we  Ve 
had  some  words  about  this.  I  don't  see  anything 
in  your  letter  to  make  it  out  of,  and  if  you  would  n't 
think  it  too  much  trouble,  I  'd  take  it  very  kindly 
of  you  if  you  'd  write  and  say  what 's  the  truth 
about  it.  'T  ain't  often  I  care  which  end  of  a  quar 
rel  I  come  out  of,  so  long 's  I  know  I  'm  right ;  but 
there  ain't  any  knowing  who  is  right  in  this  one, 
unless  by  what  you  say ;  and  Tilly  and  me  we  Ve 
had  a  good  many  words  about  it,  first  and  last. 
Tilly  's  twenty-six,  going  on  twenty-seven  ;  birth 
day  was  last  August ;  so  she  and  me  are  more  like 


JOE  H ALE'S  RED  STOCKINGS.  317 

sisters  than  anything  else.  She  's  a  good  girl,  if  I 
am  her  mother ;  and  I  'd  have  liked  first-rate  to 
bring  her  out  to  your  place  if  we  could  have 
fetched  it  about ;  but  we  could  n't  nohow.  It 's  a 
lonesome  place  here  for  a  girl. 

"  Yours  with  respect, 

"  MARTHA  BENNET. 

"  P.  S.  If  you  should  ever  be  traveling  in  these 
parts,  which  I  don't  suppose  is  any  ways  likely,  we 
should  be  glad  to  see  you  in  our  house  ;  and  a  room 
ready  for  you,  and  welcome,  if  you  could  get  along 
with  the  water." 

When  Joe  first  read  Mrs.  Bennet's  letter,  he  said 
"Whew!"  then  he  read  the  letter  over,  and  said 
again  louder  than  before, — 

"  Whew !  Did  n't  I  put  my  foot  in  it  that  time. 
I  don't  wonder  the  girl  got  her  mother  to  write  for 
her !  —  She  must  have  thought  me  monstrous  im 
pudent  to  write  her  to  come  out  here  visiting,  —  a 
woman — as  old  as  I  am,  pretty  nearly.  By  jin 
goes,  I  don't  know  what  to  do  now.  I  'd  like  to 
see  what  sort  of  a  girl  she  is,  anyhow.  I  don't 
care! — that  letter  of  hers  did  sound  just  like  a 
child's  letter  !  I  expect  she  's  a  real  innocent  kind 
of  a  woman,  and  that 's  the  kind  I  like." 

\t  last,  out  of  the  honesty  of  his  nature  came  the 
solution  of  the  dilemma ;  he  told  the  exact  truth, 
and  it  had  a  gracious  and  civil  sound,  even  in  Joe's 
unvarnished  speech. 


318  JOE  HALF'S  RED  STOCKINGS. 

"  I  did  wonder  if  it  was  n't  a  little  girl,"  he  wrote, 
"  because  she  spoke  so  honest  about  the  red  yarn 
and  about  the  light-house,  and  most  of  the  grown 
up  women  I  know  ain't  quite  so  honest  spoken. 
But  the  lady  at  the  hospital  who  wrote  for  me  first 
—  Miss  Larned  —  said  she  did  n't  think  it  was  a 
little  girl ;  and  of  course  she  could  tell  better  than 
I  could,  being  a  woman  herself." 

Then  Joe  said  that  he  should  like  to  come  to 
Provincetown,  but  his  business  never  took  him  that 
way,  and  then  he  reiterated  his  invitation  to  them 
to  come  to  see  him. 

"Since  I  made  so  bold  as  to  ask  you  the  first 
time,  you  '11  forgive  my  asking  you  over  again.  I 
do  really  wish  you  could  see  your  way  to  come,"  he 
said.  It 's  very  pretty  here  in  the  fall,  our  apples 
are  just  beginning  to  be  ripe,  and  there  ain't  any 
such  apples  anywhere  ever  I  've  been  as  in  the 
Genesee  Valley." 

Then  Joe  added  his  "best  respects"  to  Mrs. 
Bennet's  daughter,  and  closed  his  letter. 

If  there  had  been  in  the  circle  of  Joe's  acquaint 
ance  now  one  even  moderately  attractive  marriage 
able  woman,  Joe  would  have  drifted  into  falling  in 
love  with  her,  as  inevitably  as  an  apple  falls  off  its 
stem  when  its  days  of  ripening  are  numbered ;  but 
there  was  not.  Joe's  own  set  of  boys  and  girls 
were  heads  of  households  now,  and  for  the  next 
younger  set,  Joe  was  too  old.  Young  girls  did  not 
please  him ,  partly  perhaps,  because  he  saw,  ox 


JOE  H ALE'S  RED  STOCKINGS.  319 

fancied,  that  they  shrank  a  little  from  his  aimless 
sleeve.  By  imperceptible  degrees,  vague  thoughts 
began  to  form  and  float  in  Joe's  mind,  akin  to 
thoughts  which  floated  in  Mrs,  Bennet's  before  she 

O 

wrote  her  letter  ;  not  tangible  enough  to  be  stated, 
or  to  be  matter  of  distinct  consciousness,  never 
going  further  in  words  than  "  who  knows ; "  but  all 
the  while  drawing  Joe  slowly,  surely  toward  Prov- 
incetown.  He  had  thought  that  he  would  take  a 
journey  to  Iowa  before  the  winter  set  in,  and  see 
his  aunt  and  his  cousins  and  his  married  sister 
there  ;  but  gradually  he  fell  into  the  way  of  think 
ing  about  a  journey  to  the  East  first.  Now,  to  sup 
pose  from  all  this  that  Joe  had  a  romantic  senti 
ment  toward  the  unknown  Matilda  Bennet  would 
be  quite  wrong.  He  had  nothing  of  the  kind. 
He  had  merely  a  vague  but  growing  impulse  to  go 
and  see,  as  he  phrased  it,  "  what  she  was  like." 
As  week  after  week  passed  and  he  received  no  re 
ply  to  his  letter,  this  impulse  increased.  He  had 
thought  Mrs.  Bennet  would  write  again  ;  she  seemed 
to  Joe  to  wield  rather  a  glib  pen ;  he  had  supposed 
he  should  have  an  active  correspondence  "with  the 
old  lady,"  as  he  always  called  her  in  his  own  mind  \ 
but  no  letter  came.  Mrs.  Bennet  builded  better 
than  she  knew,  when  she  left  Joe  to  himself  so 
many  weeks.  His  letter  had  given  her  great  satis 
faction.  She  read  it  aloud  to  Tilly  and  to  her 
husband,  and  consoled  herself  by  her  partial  defeat 
•n  her  argument  with  Tilly  by  saying:  "Well,  he 


320  JOE  HALKS  RED  STOCKINGS. 

only  says  he  wondered ;  and  the  lady  told  him  it 
was  n't  a  child,  and  he  knew  she  knew  best ;  that 
ain't  really  making  up  his  mind  ;  I  don't  call  it  so 
by  a  long  shot ; "  and  there  the  quarrel  rested. 
Tilly  was  content,  and  if  the  whole  truth  were 
known,  a  little  more  than  content,  that  "  the  sol 
dier,"  as  she  always  called  their  unknown  corre 
spondent,  knew  now  that  she  was  "grown  up." 
Tilly  had  built  no  air-castles.  She  often  thought 
she  wished  she  could  see  "  the  soldier,"  but  she 
had  no  more  expectation  of  seeing  him  than  of 
seeing  General  McClellan.  Tilly  was,  as  her  mother 
had  said,  a  good  girl.  She  loved  her  melodeon; 
and  she  still  spent  two  hours  a  day  at  her  practic 
ing.  She  had  for  several  weeks  now  played  in 
church,  and  that  gave  her  a  new  stimulus  to  prac 
tice.  For  the  rest,  she  helped  her  mother,  she 
sewed  for  the  soldiers,  and  still  knitted  at  twilight 
on  the  rocks,  stockings  —  of  gray  yarn,  now — to 
be  sent  to  hospitals. 

One  night,  late  in  October,  when  the  stage  drove 
up  to  the  Provincetown  Hotel,  the  loungers  on  the 
piazza  were  surprised  to  see  alighting  from  it  a  one- 
armed  man,  in  a  heavy  army  overcoat.  His  speech 
was  not  that  of  a  military  man,  and  his  reticence 
as  to  his  plans  and  purposes  was  baffling. 

"Been  in  the  war,  eh?"  said  one,  nodding  to 
ward  the  empty  sleeve. 

"  Yes,"  said  Joe,  curtly. 

**  Discharged,  I  suppose." 


JOE  HALES  RED   STOCKINGS.  $21 

"  Yes,"  said  Joe.  "  They  don't  have  much  use 
for  men  in  my  fix." 

"  Got  leisure  to  look  round  ye,  a  little,  now, 
then,"  said  the  first  speaker. 

"  Yes,"  said  Joe. 

They  could  not  make  anything  out  of  him,  and 
the  street  speculated  no  little  before  it  went  to 
sleep  that  night,  as  to  what  that  "  army  feller  " 
was  after.  If  anybody  had  said  that  the  "  army  fel 
ler  "  had  come  all  the  way  to  Provincetown  solely 
to  see  what  "Tilly  Bennet  was  like,"  the  town 
would  have  given  utterance  to  one  ejaculation  of 
astonishment,  and  wondered  what  on  earth  there 
was  in  Tilly  Bennet  to  bring  a  man  all  that  dis 
tance. 

But  Joe  did  not  think  so  the  next  morning,  when, 
having  hired  a  man  to  take  him  over  to  the  light 
house,  he  landed  on  the  rocks  at  noon,  just  as  Tilly 
was  hanging  out  clothes.  The  clothes-line  was 
fastened  to  iron  stanchions  in  the  light-house  it 
self,  and  in  high  cliffs  to  the  back  of  it ;  a  gale  was 
blowing;  in  fact,  it  had  been  so  high  that  the 
boatman  had  demurred  at  first  about  taking  Joe 
across,  as  he  was  not  used  to  the  sea. 

"Go  ahead,"  said  Joe.  "If  you  can  stand  it,  I 
can  " 

But,  if  the  truth  were  told,  Joe  was  pretty  white 
about  the  lips,  and  not  very  steady  on  the  legs 
*hen  he  stepped  ashore. 


322  JOE  HALE'S  RED  STOCKINGS. 

"  A  half  hour  longer  'd  have  made  you  sicker  'n 
death,"  said  the  man,  eying  him. 

"  That 's  so,"  said  Joe,  with  a  desperate  qualm. 
"  Dry  land  for  me,  thank  you." 

"  How  long  do  ye  want  to  stay  ? "  said  the  boat 
man. 

Joe  looked  up  at  the  light-house  —  then  at  the 
tossing  white-capped  waves. 

"Always,"  he  said,  laughing,  "if  it's  going  to 
heave  like  that  —  not  more  than  an  hour,  or  may 
be  half  an  hour,"  he  added,  seriously ;  "  it  is  n't 
going  to  blow  any  worse,  is  it  ?  " 

"Oh  no,"  said  the  man,  "it  '11  quiet  down  before 
long,"  and  he  prepared  to  make  his  boat  fast. 

Tilly  was  hard  at  work  trying  to  fasten  hei 
clothes  on  the  line.  They  never  waited  for  quiet 
weather  before  hanging  out  their  clothes  at  the 
light-house.  It  was  of  no  use.  Tilly's  back  was  to 
ward  the  wharf  where  Joe  had  landed.  Her  sleeves 
were  rolled  up  to  her  shoulders,  and  her  arms  shone 
white  in  the  sun.  She  had  twisted  a  red  silk  hand 
kerchief  of  her  father's  tight  round  her  head;  a 
tew  straggling  curls  of  dark  hair  blew  out  from 
under  this ;  her  cheeks  were  scarlet,  and  her 
brown  eyes  flashed  in  her  contest  with  the  wind. 
Nobody  ever  called  Tilly  pretty;  but  she  had  a 
healthy,  honest  face,  and  at  this  moment  she  was 
pretty ;  no  —  not  pretty ;  picturesque,  which  is  far 
better  than  pretty,  though  Joe  did  not  know  that, 
wid  in  his  simplicity  only  wondered  how  a  woman 


JOE  H ALE'S  RED  STOCKINGS.  323 

could  look  so  handsome,  blowing  about  in  such  a 
gale. 

Tilly  saw  a  stranger  walking  up  to  the  light-house 
door ;  but  she  did  not  pause  in  her  work.  Stran 
gers  came  every  day.  Joe's  left  side  was  farthest 
away  from  Tilly.  She  did  not  see  the  loose,  hang 
ing  sleeve  ;  and  the  blue  of  the  army  coat  did  not 
attract  her  notice,  so  she  went  on  with  her  clothes 
without  giving  a  second  thought  to  the  man  who 
had  disappeared  in  the  big  door  of  the  light-house. 
Somebody  to  see  her  father,  no  doubt,  or  to  see  the 
light. 

When  Tilly  went  into  the  kitchen  and  saw  the 
stranger  sitting  by  the  table  talking  familiarly  with 
her  mother,  she  was  somewhat  surprised,  but  was 
passing  through  the  room  with  her  big  clothes- 
basket,  when  her  mother,  with  an  air  of  unconceal- 
able  triumph,  said  :  — 

"  Tilly,  you  could  n't  guess  who  this  is." 

Tilly  halted,  basket  in  hand,  and  turned  her  scar 
let  cheeks  and  bright  brown  eyes  full  toward  Joe. 

"No,  —  I  haven't  the  least  idea,"  she  said,  and 
as  she  said  it  she  looked  so  pretty,  that  Joe,  absurd 
as  it  might  seem,  fe11  in  love  with  her  on  the  spot. 

The  words  "I  haven't  the  least  idea,"  had 
hardly  left  her  lips,  when  her  eyes  fell  on  the  empty 
sleeve ;  and,  although  in  no  letter  had  it  ever  been 
said  that  Joe  had  lost  an  arm,  this  sight  suggested 
him  to  her  mind. 

"Why,  it  isn't  Mr.  Hale,  is  it?  "  she  said,  turn 
ing  still  redder, 


324  JOE  HALF'S  RED  STOCKINGS. 

"  It  is,  though,"  said  Joe,  rising  and  coming  to 
ward  her,  offering  her  his  one  hand.  "  You  and 
your  mother  would  n't  come  to  see  me,  and  so  I 
came  to  see  you." 

Tilly's  hand  having  been  all  the  morning  in  hot 
soap-suds,  was  red  and  swollen  and  puckered,  but 
it  looked  beautiful  to  Joe  ;  so  did  Tilly's  awkward 
little  laugh,  as  she  said,  half  drawing  back  her 
hand  :  — 

"  I  Ve  been  washing ;  that 's  what  makes  my 
hands  look  so." 

There  was  something  in  the  infantile  and  super 
fluous  honesty  of  this  remark  which  reminded  Joe 
instantly  of  the  sentence  in  Tilly's  letter:  "We 
had  the  red  worsted  in  the  house.  That  is  the 
reason  the  stockings  were  that  color,"  and  he 
smiled  at  the  memory.  His  smile  was  such  a  cor 
dial  one  that  Tilly  did  not  misinterpret  it,  and  his 
spontaneous  reply,  as  he  took  her  hand  in  his,  was 
worthy  of  a  courtier. 

"  I  often  saw  my  mother's  hands  look  like  this, 
Miss  Bennet.  She  always  did  a  great  part  of  the 
washing." 

Tilly  stood  still  looking  ill  at  ease,  and  Joe  stood 
still,  also  looking  ill  at  ease.  There  seemed  to  be 
nothing  now  to  say.  Mrs.  Bennet  cut  the  Gordian 
knot,  as  she  had  cut  one  or  two  already. 

"Go  along,  Tilly,"  she  said.  "Get  off  your 
ttasning  duds  ;  it 's  near  dinner  time." 

Tilly  was  glad  to  escape  to  her  own  room.    Once 


JOE  HALES  RED  STOCKINGS.  32$ 

safe  in  refuge  she  sank  into  a  chair  with  a  most  be 
wildered  face  and  tried  to  collect  her  thoughts.  She 
seemed  like  one  in  a  dream.  "  The  soldier  "  had 
come.  How  her  heart  ached  over  the  thought  or 
that  armless  sleeve ! 

"  He  never  said  anything  about  his  arm  being 
gone,"  thought  Tilly.  "  It 's  too  bad.  How  blue 
his  eyes  are  !  I  never  saw  such  blue  eyes  !  "  in  a 
maze  of  innocent  wonder  and  excitement.  Her 
thoughts  so  ran  away  with  her  that  when  her 
mother  called  through  the  door,  "Dinner's  ready, 
Tilly,"  poor  Tilly  was  not  half  dressed,  and  kept 
them  waiting  ten  minutes  or  more,  which  drew 
down  upon  her  from  her  father  a  rebuke  that  it 
hurt  her  sorely  to  have  "  the  soldier  "  hear.  But 
"the  soldier"  was  too  happy  to  be  disturbed  by 
small  things.  Since  his  mother's  death  Joe  had  not 
seen  anything  so  homelike,  so  familiar,  as  this 
dinner  in  Mrs.  Bennet's  little  kitchen.  He  made 
friends  with  Captain  'Lisha  at  once  ;  the  old  man 
could  not  ask  questions  enough  about  the  war, 
and  Joe  answered  them  all  with  a  patience  which 
was  perhaps  more  commendable  than  his  accuracy. 
Tilly  sat  by,  listening  in  eager  silence  •  not  a  word 
escaped  her ;  when  her  eyes  met  Joe's  she  colored 
and  looked  away. 

"  I  don't  care  if  she  is  wenty-six,"  thought  Joe, 
'*  she  is  just  like  a  child." 

Mrs.  Bennet,  with  hospitable  fervor,  had  insisted 
that  Joe  should  not  go  back  to  the  town,  but  should 


326  JOE  H ALE'S  RED  STOCKINGS, 

stay  with  them ;  "  that  is,"  she  added,  "  if  you 
think  you  can  sleep  with  the  water  swash,  swash, 
swashing  in  your  ears.  'T  was  years  before  I  ever 
could  learn  to  sleep  here ;  and  there  's  times  now 
when  I  don't  sleep  for  whole  nights  together." 

Joe  thought  he  could  sleep  in  spite  of  the  water, 
and  with  the  greatest  alacrity  sent  his  boatman 
back  to  town  for  his  valise. 

"  After  all,"  said  the  citizens,  on  hearing  this, 
"after  all  he  was  only  some  relation  of  the  Ben- 
nets." 

But  when  day  after  day  passed,  and  he  did  not 
return,  the  town  began  again  to  speculate  as  to  his 
purposes.  Some  fishermen  going  or  coming,  had 
seen  him  walking  on  the  rocks  with  Tilly  ;  and 
very  soon  a  rumor  took  to  itself  wings  and  went  up 
and  down  the  town,  that  the  one-armed  soldier  was 
"courting  Tilly  Bennet." 

The  seclusion  of  the  light-house  had  its  advan 
tages  now,  —  very  little  could  the  Provincetown 
gossips  know  of  what  went  on  among  those  dis 
tant  rocks.  Very  safe  were  Joe  and  Tilly  in  the 
nooks  which  they  explored  in  the  long  bright  after 
noons.  How  strangely  changed  seemed  the  lonely 
spot  to  Tilly  !  Each  rod  of  the  wave-washed 
beach  was  transformed  as  she  paced  it  with  Joe  by 
her  side.  No  word  of  love-making  did  Joe  say  — 
not  because  L'was  not  warm  and  ready  in  his  heart, 
but  he  was  afraid. 

"  Of  course  she  can't  care  anything  about  me,  all 


JOE  HALES  RED  STOCKINGS.  327 

of  a  sudden  so,"  said  sensible  Joe,  "She  haint 
been  a  longing  and  a  longing  for  somebody  's  I 
have." 

So  at  the  end  of  the  week  he  went  away, — 
merely  saying  to  Tilly  and  Mrs.  Bennet  as  hu  bade 
them  good-by,  that  he  would  write  very  soon.  But 
Tilly's  heart  had  not  been  so  idle  as  Joe  thought, 
and  she  was  not  surprised  one  day,  a  few  weeks 
later,  when  she  read  in  a  letter  of  Joe's  that  he 
did  n't  know  whether  she  knew  it  or  not,  but  he  had 
come  to  the  conclusion  that  she  was  just  about  the 
nicest  girl  in  all  the  country,  and  if  she  thought  she 
could  take  up  with  a  fellow  that  had  n't  but  one 
arm,  he  was  hers  to  command  for  the  rest  of  her 
life. 

Tilly  had  a  happy  little  cry  over  the  letter  before 
she  showed  it  to  her  mother. 

"  Do  you  think  you  can  like  him,  Tilly  ?  "  asked 
Mrs.  Bennet,  anxiously. 

"  Yes,"  said  Tilly,  "  I  do  like  him  ;  and  he  's 
real  good." 

And  when  they  told  Captain  'Lisha,  he  said,  ve 
hemently,  that  nothing  short  of  going  to  sea  again 
could  have  pleased  him  so  much. 

So  it  was  settled  that  at  Christmas  Joe  should 
come  back  for  Tilly. 

When  the  engagement  became  known  in  town, 
there  was  great  wonderment  about  it.  How  did 
the  acquaintance  begin  ?  What  brought  the  New 
Yorker  to  Provincetown  ? 


328  JOE  H ALE'S  RED   STOCKINGS. 

But  Tilly  and  her  mother  kept  their  secret  to 
themselves,  and  not  a  soul  in  Provincetown  ever 
heard  a  word  of  the  red  stockings,  which  was  much 
better  for  all  parties  concerned. 

The  wedding  was  to  be  on  Christmas  day.  Two 
weeks  before  that  day,  there  swept  over  Province- 
town  harbor  a  storm  the  like  of  which  had  not  been 
seen  for  half  a  century.  The  steeple  of  the  old 
church  fell ;  the  sea  cut  new  paths  for  itself  here 
and  there  among  the  low  sand-dunes,  and  washed 
away  landmarks  older  than  men  could  remember  ; 
great  ships  parted  anchor,  and  were  driven  help 
lessly  on  the  rocks,  and  the  light-house  swayed  and 
rocked  like  a  mast  in  the  tempest.  In  the  middle 
of  the  night  the  storm  burst  with  a  sudden  fury. 
At  its  first  roar  Captain  '  Lisha  .sprang  up,  and 
said,  — 

"Martha,  this  is  going  to  be  the  devil's  own 
night.  I  must  go  up  into  the  light.  I  can  't  leave 
her  alone  such  a  storm's  this." 

From  the  dwelling-house  to  the  light-house  tower 
was  only  a  short  distance  ;  the  rocks  were  shelving, 
but  a  stout  iron  railing  protected  the  path  on  one 
side.  Whether  Captain  ;Lisha  failed  to  grasp  this 
rail  and  slipped  on  the  icy  rocks,  or  whether  he 
was  swept  off  by  the  violence  of  the  gale,  could  only 
be  conjectured,  but  in  the  morning  he  did  not  come 
back.  As  soon  as  the  storm  had  lulled  a  little, 
Mrs.  Bennet  crept  cautiously  across  the  slippery 
path-way,  and  climbed  the  winding  stair  to  the  light; 


JOE  HALE1  S  RED  STOCKINGS.  329 

In  a  short  time  she  returned,  with  a  white,  horror- 
stricken  face,  and  in  reply  to  Tilly's  cry  of  alarm, 
gasped :  — 

"  Your  father's  gone  !  " 

After  the  first  shock  of  the  death  was  over,  Mrs. 
Bennet  saw  much  to  be  grateful  for  in  its  manner; 
in  her  own  inimitable  way,  she  dilated  on  the  satis 
faction  it  must  have  been  to  Captain  'Lisha. 

"  It 's  just  what  he  was  forever  a  sayin'  he  'd 
like,  to  be  buried  in  the  sea,  and  especially  to  be 
washed  overboard  ;  if  I  've  heard  him  say  so  once, 
I  've  heard  him  a  hundred  times,  and  the  Lord's 
took  him  at  his  word,  and  I  don't  believe  there  's  a 
happier  spirit  anywhere  than  'Lisha's  is,  wherever 
'tis  he  's  gone  to." 

In  the  Provincetown  way  of  thinking,  Captain 
'  Lisha's  death  was  no  reason  why  Tilly's  marriage 
should  be  deferred,  but  rather  why  it  should  be 
hastened.  It  took  place,  as  had  been  planned,  on 
Christmas  day. 

The  next  day  when  Tilly  and  her  mother  bade 
everybody  good-by,  and  went  away  with  Tilly's 
manly,  tall,  kindly-eyed  husband,  everybody  said, 
"  What  a  Providence  !  "  and  I  make  no  manner  of 
doubt  that  Joe  and  Tilly  got  on  quite  as  well  to 
gether,  and  were  quite  as  happy  as  if  they  had 
known  each  other  better  and  taken  more  time  to 
consider  the  question  of  marrying 

It  may  not  be  foreign  to  our  story  to  add  that 


330  JOE  H ALE'S   RED  STOCKINGS. 

after  Joe  had  been  married  a  week  he  recollected 
to  send  to  Miss  Henrietta  Larned,  at  the  Menthaven 
Hospital,  a  newspaper  containing  the  announce 
ment  of  his  marriage.  When  Netty  read  it,  she  ex 
claimed  in  a  low  voice  :  — 

"  Good  !     Good  !  " 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  said  Sarah.  "  Who  's  married 
now  ? " 

"  What  put  it  into  your  head  it  was  a  marriage  ? " 
said  Netty. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Sarah,  "  your  tone,  I  sup 
pose." 

Netty  read  the  notice  aloud. 

"  The  very  girl !  "  cried  Sarah.  "  What  a  queer 
thing ! " 

"  It 's  perfectly  splendid  !  "  said  Netty.  "What 
a  nice  husband  Joe  Hale  will  make  !  And  now 
we  '11  tell  Clara  Winthrop  I  " 


SUSAN    LAWTON'S    ESCAPE. 


I  NEVER  heard  of  a  girl  who  had  her  own  way  so 
completely,  so  delightfully,  and  so  respectably  as 
Susan  Sweetser  did.  She  was  an  only  child.  Her 
mother  died  when  she  was  a  baby ;  her  father,  who 
had  never  married  again,  died  when  she  was  six 
teen.  He  left  a  large  fortune,  the  income  of  which 
was  to  be  paid  to  Susan  until  she  was  twenty-one, 
and  at  that  time  the  whole  estate  was  to  come  into 
her  hands  as  unreservedly  as  if  she  had  been  a 
man.  Her  guardian,  whose  function  was  simply  a 
nominal  one,  was  her  uncle  by  marriage,  Thomas 
Lawton,  a  man  not  more  than  a  dozen  years  older 
than  herself,  —  an  easy  going,  indolent,  rich  fellow, 
who  never  gave  himself  any  concern  about  Susan 
further  than  the  depositing  in  the  bank  each  quarter 
the  thousands  of  dollars  which  she  might  spend  as 
she  liked.  Mrs.  Thomas  Lawton  was  a  girl  only  a 
few  years  older  than  Susan,  and  one  after  her  own 
heart ;  and  when,  two  years  after  the  death  of  her 
father,  Susan  took  up  her  abode  in  the  Lawton 


332  SUSAN  LAWTON'S  ESCAPE. 

Household,  nothing  could  be  jollier  than  the  life 
the  two  women  led  together.  The  death  of  her 
father  was  no  personal  loss  to  Susan ;  she  had 
seen  him  only  in  her  brief  school  vacations ;  he 
was  a  reserved  and  silent  man,  wholly  absorbed  in 
making  a  fortune.  He  had  always  had  the  theory 
that  when  the  fortune  was  big  enough,  and  Susan 
was  old  enough  to  leave  school,  he  would  take 
some  leisure,  enjoy  himself,  and  become  acquainted 
with  his  daughter.  But  Death  had  other  plans  for 
Mr.  Sweetser.  He  cut  him  down  one  night,  before 
that  interval  of  leisure  had  arrived,  and  before  Su 
san  was  old  enough  to  leave  school,  but  not  before 
the  fortune  had  grown  large  enough  to  satisfy  the 
utmost  wants  of  any  reasonable  being.  More  be 
cause  of  her  own  interest  in  study  than  from  any 
exercise  of  authority  or  even  influence  on  her 
guardian's  part,  Susan  remained  at  school  two 
years  after  her  father's  death.  During  these  two 
years  she  held,  by  virtue  of  her  independence  and 
her  riches,  a  position  in  the  school  which  was 
hardly  that  of  a  scholar.  A  young  lady  who  had 
a  carriage  and  horses  at  her  command,  and  thou 
sands  of  dollars  every  quarter  for  the  expenditure 
of  which  she  was  responsible  to  nobody  but  her 
self,  was  not  likely  to  be  held  in  much  restraint  by 
her  teachers.  Madame  Delancy  was  only  too  glad 
to  avail  herself  of  Miss  Sweetser's  carriage  on  oc 
casion  ;  ard  Miss  Sweetser's  generosity,  in  count 
less  ways,  smoothed  difficulties  in  the  Delancy 


SUSA  N  LA  WTON  'S  £  SCAPE.  333 

household,  which  was  like  all  boarding-school  house 
holds,  straitened  at  times,  and  forced  to  keep  up 
show  at  expense  of  comfort.  If  Susan  had  not 
been  of  a  singularly  sweet  nature,  this  abnormal 
freedom  and  independence,  at  the  age  of  sixteen, 
would  have  hurt  her  sadly.  As  it  was,  the  chief 
fault  developed  in  her  by  her  situation  was  an  im- 
periousness  of  will,  or  impatience,  if  obstacles  of 
any  sort  hindered  her  in  carrying  out  a  project. 
But  as  her  projects  were  usually  of  a  magnanimous 
and  generous  kind,  this  impatience  did  not  seem 
unlovely ;  and  the  imperious  manner  was  often 
charming.  Her  schemes  could  not  be  said  to  be 
unselfish,  because  they  usually  were  for  pleasures 
or  profits  which  she  desired  for  herself ;  but  on  the 
other  hand  they  could  not  be  said  to  be  selfish,  be 
cause  she  made  them  so  wide  in  their  scope,  includ 
ing  everybody  she  could  easily  reach.  If  she  wanted 
to  go  to  an  entertainment  of  any  sort,  she  took  her 
whole  class,  sometimes  the  whole  school ;  when  she 
went  to  drive  in  her  pretty,  blue-lined  carriage, 
somebody  else  always  went  too,  —  Madame  De- 
lancy  herself,  or  some  teacher,  or  some  friend. 
When  she  wanted  strawberries,  she  ordered  them 
into  the  house  by  the  dozen  boxes,  and  had  them 
given  to  everybody  at  breakfast.  And  she  did  not 
do  this  with  the  least  air  of  patronage  or  condescen 
sion  ;  she  did  not  think  about  its  being  any  favor  to 
people,  or  that  she  laid  them  under  an  obligation  ; 
*he  simply  liked  to  do  it ;  it  was  her  way  ;  there  was 


334  SUSAN  LA  WTON'S  ESCAPE. 

no  special  friendliness  in  it;  no  exalted  notion 
either  about  conferring  happiness  ;  why  she  liked  to 
do  so,  she  never  thought ;  and  if  she  had  thought 
and  questioned,  would  have  been  puzzled  to  tell  ; 
she  did  it  as  little  children  gregariously  by- instinct 
do,  when  they  exclaim,  "  Oh,  let 's  do  "  this,  or  that, 
or  the  other  —  "  it  will  be  so  nice  !  "  That  this  was 
a  surface  and  sensuous  view  of  life,  cannot  be  de 
nied  ;  but  then,  we  are  not  drawing  an  ideal  char 
acter  ;  we  are  merely  telling  the  exact  truth  about 
Susan  Sweetser.  She  was  not  a  saint  by  any  man 
ner  of  means,  nor  the  stuff  of  which  saints  are  made. 
She  got  no  end  of  preaching  to  from  pastors  and 
from  self-elected  advisers,  who  saw  in  the  free- 
souled  young  heiress  a  great  opportunity  for  that 
obnoxious  practice  known  as  "  doing  good."  But 
against  all  their  lectures  and  sermons  Susan's  light- 
heartedness  was  a  more  effectual  barrier  than  the 
hardest-heartedness  in  the  world  could  have  been. 
When  they  came,  asking  her  for  money,  she  pulled 
out  her  purse  and  gave  it  to  them ;  not  always  so 
much  as  they  asked  for,  because  on  some  such 
points  Susan  had  her  own  ideas  of  proportion  and 
disproportion  ;  yet  she  always  gave  liberally.  But 
when  they  came  preaching  to  her  that  she  herself 
should  do  this  and  that,  should  go  here  and  there, 
should  be  this  and  that,  Susan  smiled  pleasantly, 
said  little,  but  went  on  her  way  undisturbed.  The 
odd  thing  was  that  she  kept  this  undisturbed  pla 
cidity  of  being  comfortable  in  her  own  fashion,  in 


SUSAN  LAWTON'S  ESCAPE.  33$ 

spite  of  the  most  dogged  orthodoxy  of  religious 
belief. 

Just  before  Susan  was  eighteen  years  old,  and  a 
few  weeks  before  her  graduation  at  Madame  De- 
lancy's,  Mr.  Thomas  Lawton  died.  Mrs.  Lawton 
was  now  left  as  free  and  independent,  and  nearly 
as  rich,  as  Susan.  Her  love  for  her  husband  had 
been  very  sincere  as  far  as  it  went,  but  it  had  not 
been  of  such  a  nature  as  to  make  his  death  a  heart 
breaking  thing  to  her.  Life  looked  very  attractive 
to  Mrs.  Thomas  Lawton  as  one  morning,  a  few 
months  after  her  husband  had  died,  and  six  weeks 
after  Susan  had  left  school,  she  and  Susan  sat  to 
gether  in  the  handsome  library,  planning  what  they 
would  do  for  themselves  for  the  winter. 

"  Bell,"  said  Susan,  energetically,"  it 's  perfectly 
splendid  that  you  can  chaperon  me  everywhere ! 
I  Ve  always  had  a  terror  of  the  time  when  I  'd  have 
to  hire  some  lay  figure  of  respectability  to  live  with 
me  and  go  about  with  me,  and  all  that.  I  know  I 
should  have  hated  her.  I  expect  I  should  have 
changed  her  as  often  as  poor  papa  had  to  change 
cooks.  But  now  it 's  all  right.  You  and  I  can  go 
all  over  the  world  together.  You  can  do  what  you 
like,  because  you're  a  widow." 

"  Oh,  don't  Susan ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Lawton, 
deprecatingly.  "  How  can  you  run  on  so  ?  " 

"  Why,  Bell,  dear,  I  did  n't  mean  to  hurt  your 
teelings,"  said  Susan  ;  but  it 's  true  —  a  widow  can 
50  anywhere.  If  you  had  n't  been  married,  you 


336  SUSAN  LAWTON'S  ESCAPE. 

could  n't  chaperon  me,  don't  you  know  ?  And  your 
being  my  aunt  makes  it  all  the  better.  You  'd 
never  do  for  my  chaperon  in  the  world  if  it  wer'  n  't 
for  that,  you  young-looking  thing,  you !  I  declare 
you  don't  look  a  day  older  than  I  do  !  " 

Mrs.  Bell  Lawton  did,  indeed,  look  very  young 
in  her  widow's  cap,  which  lay  in  its  graceful  Marie 
Stuart  triangle  very  lightly  on  her  pretty  blond 
hair,  and  made  her  look,  as  widow's  caps  always 
make  young  and  pretty  woman  look,  far  less  like  a 
mourner  than  she  would  have  looked  without  it. 

"Now,  Susan,  don't  talk  nonsense,"  said  Mrs. 
Lawton.  "  You  know  I  'm  twenty-five  next  month, 
and  I  'm  sure  that  is  antiquated.  Oh,  dear,  if  I 
were  only  eighteen,  like  you  !  " 

"What  then?"  asked  honest  Susan.  "Why  is 
eighteen  any  better  than  twenty-five,  Bell  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  replied  Bell,  confusedly. 
"  I  don't  suppose  it  is  any  better  ? " 

"  I  don't  think  it 's  half  so  good,"  said  Susan  • 
"  or,  at  any  rate,  half  so  good  as  twenty-one.  I  'm 
dying  to  be  twenty-one.  I  wan't  all  my  money !  " 

"Why,  Susan  Sweetser  !  "  exclaimed  Bell.  "What 
on  earth  would  you  do  with  any  more  money  ?  You 
$an  't  spend  all  your  income  now." 

"  Can't  I  ?  "  laughed  Susan.  "  You  just  try  me 
and  see  !  I  'm  overdrawn  on  this  quarter  already  ; 
and  it  's  so  disagreeable  to  be  told  of  it.  Dear 
Uncle  Tom  never  told  me.  He  was  a  great  deal 
nicer  for  a  guardian  than  this  old  Mr.  Clark  is." 


SUSAN  LAWTON'S  ESCAPE.  33? 

Mi ,  Clark  was  the  family  lawyer,  who  was  to  act 
as  Susan's  guardian  and  business  agent  for  the 
next  three  years,  and  who  had  already  made  him 
self  tiresome  to  her,  by  trying  to  instill  into  her 
mind  some  ideas  of  system  and  economy  in  expen 
diture. 

"Overdrawn!"  cried  Bell.  "You  extravagant 
girl !  What  have  you  been  doing  ?  " 

"  I  don't  really  know,"  laughed  Susan.  "  I  never 
keep  accounts.  I  let  poor  Madame  Delancy  have 
a  thousand ;  that  was  one  thing.  She  '11  pay  me  in 
the  spring ;  and  those  riding  parties  were  awfully 
dear.  Mr.  Clark  says  I  must  n't  pay  for  my  friends' 
horses  any  more  \  but  I  don't  think  it  is  any  of  his 
business.  Lots  of  the  girls  I  want  to  have  go  can't 
go  any  other  way ;  their  fathers  can't  afford  it." 

"You're  a  dear  generous  soul,"  said  Bell,  ad 
miringly. 

"  No  I  'm  not,"  said  Susan.  "  There  is  n't  any 
generosity  in  my  sending  Sally  Sanford  a  horse, 
when  I  want  her  in  my  party,  and  know  she  can't 
come  any  other  way.  It 's  to  please  myself  I  do 
it." 

"Well,  I  think  it's  generous  for  all  that,"  said 
Bell,  "  and  anybody  in  the  world  would  say  so." 

"  Anybody  in  the  world  will  say  anything,"  re 
plied  Susan,  satirically ;  "  there  is  one  thing  I  made 
up  my  mind  about  long  ago,  and  that  is,  never  to 
mind  what  the  world  says,  either  for  or  against  a 
thing  or  a  person.  " 

22 


338  SUSAW  LA  WTON  'S  ESCAPE. 

"  You  can  't  afford  to  do  that  way,  Sue,"  said 
Mrs.  Bell,  who  was  conservative  by  nature  and 
training.  "  You  '11  get  talked  about  awfully,  the  first 
thing  you  know.  " 

"  Let  them  talk  !  "  laughed  Susan.  "  They  '11  talk 
anyway.  It  might  as  well  be  about  me." 

"  No,  it  might  n't ! "  persisted  Bell,  who  had  her 
own  reasons  for  laying  stress  on  this  point  with 
Susan.  "  No,  it  might  n't.  I  tell  you,  Sue,  a  woman 
can't  afford  to  be  talked  about." 

"Can't  afford?  What  do  you  mean  by  that? 
How  much  does  it  cost  ? "  said  Susan,  scornfully. 

Mrs.  Bell  was  not  clever  enough  to  answer  Susan 
in  her  own  phraseology,  and  say,  "  It  costs  loss  of 
position,  loss  of  the  best  regard  of  the  best  people, 
loss  of  absolute  trust  from  men  whose  trust  would 
be  honor,  and  might  be  love ; "  she  only  said, 
meekly :  — 

"  You  know  as  well  as  I  do,  Sue,  that  nobody 
really  thinks  so  well  of  a  woman  who  is  much  talked 
about.  I  don't  think  a  woman  can  be  too  careful, 
for  my  part ;  especially,  Sue,  women  situated  as  you 
and  I  are ;  we  have  got  to  be  very  careful  indeed." 

This  was  an  opportunity  Mrs.  Bell  had  been  anx 
iously  awaiting  for  a  long  time.  She  had  felt  that 
it  was  necessary  to  define  their  positions  and  have 
some  such  matters  thoroughly  understood  in  the 
outset  of  her  life  with  Susan,  but  she  had  lacked 
moral  courage  to  open  the  discussion. 

"  I  'm  never  going  to  be  careful,  as  you  call  it, 


SUSAN  LAWTON'S  ESCAPE.  339 

Bell,"  cried  Susan.  "  Never  !  and  you  '11  have  to 
make  up  your  mind  to  that.  I  hate  it,  the  sneaking, 
time-serving,  calculating  thing.  It  is  next  door  to 
lying  and  stealing.  I  'm  going  always  to  say  what 
I  think,  do  what  I  like,  have  what  friends  I  please, 
without  the  slightest  reference  to  what  the  world 
says  j  whether  they  call  it  strange  or  not,  proper  or 
not,  right  or  not,  it 's  nothing  to  me.  I  don't  care 
a  straw  for  the  whole  world's  opinion,  so  long  as  I 
am  sure  I  am  right." 

"  Then  you  '11  get  into  horrible  scrapes  ;  that 's 
all ;  I  can  tell  you  that,"  said  Bell,  hotly. 

"  Why,  I  'm  never  going  to  do  anything  im 
proper,"  retorted  Susan ;  "  and  how  shall  I  get  into 
horrible  scrapes  ? " 

"  Oh,  millions  of  ways,"  replied  Bell,  despair 
ingly.  "When  you  're  as  old  as  I  am,  you  '11  know 
the  world  better.  I  tell  you  women  can  't  do  that 
way  ;  and  I  don't  think  it 's  womanly." 

"  What  is  n't  womanly  ?  "  said  Susan,  in  a  pettish 
tone. 

"Why,  not  caring,"  said  Bell;  "I  think  it's  a 
woman's  place  to  care  very  much  what  people  think 
of  her,  and  to  try  not  to  offend  anybody's  prejudices  , 
and  above  all  things,  not  to  go  against  custom." 

Susan  groaned. 

"  Oh,  pshaw,  Bell,"  she  said,  "  what  kind  of  a 
life  would  that  be  ?  I  'd  as  soon  be  a  cartridge  in 
\  cartridge  case,  numbered  and  packed.  But  don't 
et  us  quarrel  over  this.  We  shall  never  think  alike 
%bout  it." 


34O  SUSAN  LA  WTON'S  ESCAPE. 

"  No,  I  suppose  not,"  replied  Bell,  gravely. 
"  But  if  we  're  going  to  live  together  all  our  lives, 
it 's  a  great  pity  we  should  not,  especially  if,  as  you 
say,  I  'm  going  to  be  your  chaperon. " 

"  Oh,  you  motherly,  grandmotherly  old  girl  !  " 
cried  Susan,  kissing  her.  "  Don't  you  worry  your 
self  •  I  won't  do  anything  you  don't  want  me  to.  I 
believe  in  caring  what  one's  friends  say." 

"  You  sweet,  dear  Sue  !  "  cried  Bell,  kissing  her 
warmly  in  turn  ;  "  I  know  you  won't." 

From  all  which  it  is  easy  to  see  that  Mrs.  Thomas 
Lawton's  chaperonage  of  Miss  Susan  Sweetser 
would  not  be  a  very  rigid  one. 

Susan's  phrase,  "  What  friends  I  please,"  had 
not  been  a  random  one.  For  more  than  a  year  her 
intimacy  with  Professor  Balloure  had  been  such  as 
to  give  rise  to  some  ill-natured  comment  in  the  town, 
and  to  no  little  anxiety  in  the  minds  of  her  friends. 
Edward  Balloure  had  been  professor  of  belles-lettres 
in  one  of  our  large  colleges  in  his  youth,  but  marry 
ing  early  a  woman  of  fortune,  he  had  at  once  relin 
quished  his  professorship,  and  had  ever  since  led  a 
life  of  indolent  leisure,  dabbling  in  literature  in  an 
die  fashion,  now  and  then  throwing  off  a  creditable 
pamphlet  or  paper,  but  for  the  most  part  doing 
nothing  except  enjoy  himself.  He  was  a  hand 
some  man  and  a  brilliant  talker ;  everybody  liked 
him ;  nobody  loved  him,  not  even  his  wife,  who  had 
soon  found  out  that  he  had  married  her  for  her 
ttioney  and  not  from  affection.  This  knowledge, 


SUSAN  LAWTON'S  ESCAPE.  34! 

instead  of  crushing  her,  as  it  would  a  woman  of 
weaker  nature,  had  turned  her  into  a  cold,  hard, 
bitter,  ill-natured  woman,  whom  it.  seemed,  now, 
nobody  could  like  or  live  with ;  yet  those  who 
knew  both  her  and  her  husband  when  they  were 
young  said  that  Martha  Balloure,  at  the  time  of  her 
marriage,  had  been  an  impulsive,  loving,  lovable 
girl.  Be  that  as  it  may,  she  was  now  an  unlovely, 
cynical,  sharp-tongued,  heartless  woman,  without  a 
friend  in  the  community,  and  the  verdict  of  the 
world  was  always,  "  Poor  Professor  Balloure ! 
What  a  sad  fate  it  was  that  tied  him  to  such  a 
woman  !  "  Mrs.  Balloure  herself  perpetually  fed 
this  expression  by  her  unconcealed  contempt  for 
and  dislike  of  her  husband.  She  had  a  sad  lack  of 
dignity  of  character,  and  could  never  forego  an 
opportunity  of  a  fling  at  the  man  whose  name  she 
bore.  When  people  praised  him  to  her,  —  said,  for 
instance,  "  How  well  Professor  Balloure  talks  ! " 
Mrs.  Balloure  would  reply,  with  a  sneer,  "  Yes,  out 
side  his  own  house."  Professor  Balloure,  on  the 
contrary,  never  spoke  of  his  wife  but  with  the  ut 
most  respect ;  always  treated  her  with  the  utmost 
courtesy,  in  the  presence  of  others.  Some  close 
observers  noticed  that  his  eye  never  rested  on  her 
face  —  never  met  hers  if  it  could  be  avoided  ;  and 
when  Mrs.  Balloure  replied  bitterly,  as  she  had  been 
Viore  than  once  heard  to,  on  his  offering  her  some 
small  attentions,  "  Oh,  pray  don't  trouble  yourself  ; 
you  know  you  would  n't  do  it  if  there  were  no  one 


342  SUSAN  LAWTOWS  ESCAPE 

here ! "  these  same  close  observers  wondered 
whether,  after  all,  the  brilliant  Professor  Balloure 
might  not  be  a  hypocrite.  But  he  talked  so  well 
on  high  themes,  he  was  so  full  of  noble  sentiments, 
so  sure  to  be  on  the  right  side  of  all  questions,  — 
theoretical  or  practical,  —  it  was  hard  to  believe 
the  man  hollow-hearted.  And  yet,  hollow  he  was 
to  the  very  core,  always  excepting  his  sentiment 
toward  Susan  Sweetser.  This  was  the  one  true, 
genuine  thing  he  bore  about  him.  He  had  been 
irresistibly  attracted  toward  her  while  she  was  a 
mere  child.  Her  frankness,  her  courage,  her  gen 
erosity,  all  allured  him  by  the  very  greatness  of  the 
contrast  they  bore  to  his  own  traits.  Out  of  his 
own  meagerness  was  born  his  appreciation  of  her 
nobility.  He  looked  back  at  his  own  youth,  —  at 
the  time  when  he  sold  himself  for  money,  —  and 
he  wondered,  with  passionate  admiration,  at  the 
fearlessness,  generosity,  independence  of  this  girl. 
Susan  had  no  beauty  to  thrill  a  man's  senses  ;  but 
she  had  the  perpetually  varying  charm  of  over 
flowing  life  and  activity,  and  fullness  of  thought. 
When  Professor  Balloure  was  inquired  of  b;y 
Madame  Delancy  if  he  would  give  a  course  of 
lectures,  accompanied  by  recitations,  to  the  young 
ladies  of  her  senior  class,  he  recollected  instantly 
that  Mrs.  Lawton  had  told  him  that  this  would  be 
Susan's  last  year  at  school,  and  he  consented  to 
give  the  lectures  for  the  sole  and  simple  purpose 
of  thus  bringing  himself  into  relation  with  her 


SUSAN  LA  WTON'S  ESCAPE.  343 

'  How  kind  of  Professor  Balloure  ! "  everybody 
said.  "  Such  a  help  to  Madame  Delancy  !  How 
kind  of  him  !  " 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  "  sneered  Mrs.  Balloure. 
She  did  not  know  what  her  husband's  motive  was, 
out  that  it  was  not  kindness  she  was  sure.  She 
did  not  trouble  herself  to  find  out,  for  she  did  not 
care.  She  spoke  of  the  lecture  course  as  "  one  of 
Mr.  Balloure's  whims,"  and  dismissed  it  from  her 
mind. 

She  never  went  into  society  with  him,  and  really 
knew  nothing  of  his  habitual  manner  of  half-in 
sidious,  half-chivalrous  gallantry  toward  young 
women.  If  she  had  she  would  not  have  cared ;  she 
despised  him  too  thoroughly  to  be  wounded  by  any 
thing  he  might  do  ;  and  the  one  great  flaw  in  her 
nature  —  her  lack  of  personal  dignity  —  would  have 
prevented  her  suffering  as  most  women  would  from 
mortification.  If  anybody  had  gone  to  her  and 
confided  to  her  proofs  of  her  husband's  having  had 
even  an  intrigue,  she  would  most  probably  have 
said  in  her  usual  bitter  tone,  "  You  are  surprised, 
then ! "  and  have  dropped  the  subject,  as  one  of 
entire  indifference  to  her. 

It  is  an  odd  thing  how  very  much  franker  a  man 
ner  some  types  of  hypocrites  wear  than  a  really 
.Tank  person  ever  has.  Edward  Balloure  had  an  off 
hand,  hilarious,  half-confidential  way  with  everybody* 
He  seemed  almost  lacking  in  proper  reticence  and 
secretlveness,  so  familiarly  did  he  talk  with  people 


344  SUSAN  LA  WTON'S  ESCAPE. 

whom  he  desired  to  please  ;  and  he  had  a  large, 
clear,  light-blue  eye,  which  looked  full  in  every 
body's  face,  and  never  wavered.  It  is  only  after  a 
long  and  more  or  less  sad  experience  of  the  world, 
that  we  learn  to  recognize  such  eyes  as  the  eyes  of 
traitors.  I  know  to-day  two  women  who  are  base 
and  treacherous  as  if  the  very  blood  of  Judas  Isca- 
riot  filled  their  veins,  and  they  both  have  sunny, 
clear,  unflinching,  light-blue  eyes ;  and  I  have 
known  a  man  who  could,  on  occasion,  tell  cowardly 
lies  with  as  steady  a  gaze  into  your  face  as  an  hon 
est  man  could  give,  —  and  he  too  had  light-blue 
eyes,  —  sunny,  clear,  unflinching. 

If  anybody  had  said  to  Susan  Sweetser,  that  Pro 
fessor  Balloure  was  not  an  upright,  sincere  man, 
she  would  have  blazed  with  indignation.  His 
beauty,  his  brilliancy,  his  seeming  kindliness,  im 
pressed  her  in  the  outset ;  and  when  by  degrees  he 
singled  her  out  from  all  her  class,  and  made  evi 
dent  and  especial  efforts  to  interest  and  instruct 
her,  her  admiration  took  on  an  affectionate  and 
grateful  quality  which  made  her  very  attractive,  and 
gave  Edward  Balloure  great  pleasure.  Nothing 
was  further  from  his  intention  than  to  have  any 
flirtation  with  Susan.  He  was  too  cold-blooded  and 
conscious  ever  to  compromise  himself  for  any  wom 
an  ;  and  he  really  did  care  for  Susan  herself  too 
truly  and  warmly  to  be  willing  to  compromise  her. 
But  he  did  intend  to  enjoy  himself ;  and  he  did  find 
a  greater  pleasure  in  teaching  Susan  Sweetser,  in 


SUSAN  LAWTON'S  ESCAPE.  345 

watching  her  quick  comprehension,  her  originality 
of  thought,  her  eager  impulsiveness,  than  he  had 
found  in  anything  for  many  a  long  year.  The  very 
best  of  him  came  out  to,  and  for,  and  with,  Susan. 
Gradually  their  intercourse  dropped  from  the  rela 
tion  of  pupil  with  teacher  into  that  of  friend  with 
friend.  The  technical  instruction  continued,  but 
its  atmosphere  was  new;  there  was  a  partial  re 
newal  of  the  old  bond.  Edward  Balloure  could  not 
help  reverencing  this  girl,  whose  belief  in  him,  he 
knew,  had  its  foundation  in  her  immovable  belief 
in  honor  and  truth;  whose  affection  for  him  in 
dividually  was,  he  knew,  also,  based  on  her  belief 
that  he  was  honorable  and  truthful.  Probably 
Susan  was  the  only  human  being  to  whom  he  would 
have  found  it  difficult  to  lie.  He  said  to  himself 
sometimes  when  he  looked  in  her  face  :  — 

"  Now,  such  a  woman  as  that  I  never  could  have 
had  the  heart  to  deceive." 

It  soothed  his  uneasy  consciousness  of  his  hypo 
critical  past  to  assume  that,  if  his  wife  had  been  a 
stronger  person  he  might  have  been  saved  from  his 
deceit.  But  he  was  mistaken.  If  it  had  suited  his 
purposes,  and  the  purposes  had  been  strong  enough, 
he  would  have  deceived  Susan  Sweetser  as  readily 
to-day  as  he  had  deceived  his  wife  fifteen  years  be 
fore.  For  a  year  and  a  half  now  the  relation  be 
tween  Professor  Balloure  and  Susan  had  gone  stead 
ily  on,  growing  warmer  and  closer.  When  the  lect 
ures  at  Madame  Delancy's  ceased,  and  Susan  had 


346  SUSAN  LAWTON'S   ESCAPE. 

left  school,  nothing  was  more  natural  than  that  she 
should  continue  some  of  her  studies  under  Pro 
fessor  Balloure's  guidance.  And  this  was  the  os 
tensible  pretext  under  shelter  of  which  there  con 
tinued  an  amount  of  intimacy  which  would  have 
been  otherwise  inadmissible.  But  that  it  was  partly 
a  pretext,  and  that  the  intimacy  was  for  Susan  an 
undesirable  one,  Mrs.  Lawton  had  come  to  feel 
most  decidedly ;  and  there  had  been  several  earnest 
conversations  between  them  on  the  subject.  The 
most  baffling  thing  to  Mrs.  Lawton  in  these  con 
versations  was  the  utter  impossibility  of  making 
Susan  comprehend  what  was  objected  to.  She  sim 
ply  could  not  understand.  Professor  Balloure  had 
been  her  teacher;  he  was  her  teacher  still ;  he  was 
forty  and  she  was  eighteen ;  and  above  all  he  was 
a  married  man,  and  to  Susan's  mind  there  was 
something  absurd  as  well  as  indelicate  in  any  sug 
gestion  that  there  could  be  harm  either  to  her  or  to 
him  in  their  friendship. 

"  Why,  I  should  as  soon  think  of  your  objecting 
to  an  intimacy  between  me  and  papa,  if  he  were 
alive,"  said  Susan,  vehemently ;  "if  I  ever  could 
have  had  an  intimacy  with  papa,"  she  added,  sadly. 
"  Papa  was  only  forty  when  he  died  ;  he  would 
only  be  as  much  older  than  Professor  Balloure, 
now,  as  you  are  than  I ;  there  's  no  real  difference 
of  age  between  you  and  me." 

At  such  times  as  this,  poor  Mrs.  Lawton  always 
fell  back  hopelessly  on  the  assertion  that  Susan 


SUSAN-  LAWTON' S  ESCAPE.  347 

did  not  know  the  world ;  to  which  Susan  always 
retorted  that  she  hoped  she  never  should  know  it , 
and  there  matters  rested,  in  no  wise  altered  by  the 
discussions,  except  that  Susan  was  somewhat  hurt 
by  them,  inasmuch  as  each  one  inevitably  took 
away  a  little  of  her  fresh  innocence  and  inability  to 
comprehend  evil.  Mrs.  Lawton  loved  Susan  better 
than  she  loved  any  one  else  in  the  world,  and  the 
purpose  had  been  growing  stronger  and  stronger 
for  weeks  to  take  Susan  away  from  home  and  break 
up  her  intimacy  with  Edward  Balloure.  The  pur 
pose  coincided  also  with  her  own  wishes,  for  the 
great  air-castle  of  her  life  had  been  to  spend  some 
years  in  Europe.  The  one  short  and  hurried  trip 
she  had  taken  there  with  her  husband,  soon  after 
their  marriage,  had  been  merely  sufficient  to  make 
her  long  to  go  again.  She  had  often  spoken  of  this 
to  Susan,  so  there  seemed  nothing  abrupt  or  unrea 
sonable  when  on  the  present  morning,  as  they  sat 
together  in  the  library,  discussing  plans  for  the 
winter,  she  suddenly  said  :  — 

"Susan,  we'll  go  abroad." 

Susan  sprang  to  her  feet,  her  face  flushed  with 
pleasure. 

"  You  don  't  mean  it,  Bell  ?  " 

"  But  I  do !  "  said  Mrs.  Lawton ;  "  I  Ve  been 
meaning  it  all  along." 

"  You  blessed  creature  !  "  cried  Susan.  "  I  Ve 
Seen  dying  to  go  ever  since  I  could  recollect.  I 
nave  had  it  on  my  tongue's  end  five  hundred  times 


348  SUSAN  LA  WTON  'S  ESCAPE. 

in  the  last  three  months  to  propose  it  to  you ;  but  I 
did  not  like  to.  I  was  afraid  you  would  not  want 
to  go  and  would  think  you  must  go  for  my  sake." 

"  Why  should  n  't  I  want  to  go  ?  "  exclaimed  Mrs, 
Lawton,  wonderingly. 

"  Oh,  I  was  afraid  you  might  not  feel  like  it," 
was  Susan's  evasive  reply.  She  did  not  like  to  be 
tray  to  Mrs.  Lawton  that  she  had  doubted  whether 
she  would  be  willing  to  leave  her  parents,  now  both 
very  old  ;  also  whether  her  afflictions  were  not  yet 
too  fresh  in  her  mind  to  permit  her  full  enjoyment 
of  travel.  Neither  of  these  considerations  having 
entered  into  Mrs.  Lawton's  mind,  she  did  not  sus 
pect  any  hidden  meaning  in  Susan's  words,  and 
went  eagerly  on  in  the  discussion  of  their  plans. 

Nothing  is  easier  than  for  two  women  of  large 
fortunes  and  assured  incomes  to  set  off  on  a  de 
lightful  tour  of  foreign  travel.  All  paths  become 
easy,  thus  smoothed  by  money,  and  so  Mrs.  Law- 
ton  and  Susan  Sweetser  found.  Probably  no  two 
women  ever  had  a  "  better  time  "  in  the  world  than 
did  these  two  for  the  next  three  years.  I  pass  by 
all  details  of  these  years  spent  abroad,  because  I 
am  not  telling  the  story  of  Susan's  life,  only  of  two 
days  in  her  life  —  of  an  escape  she  had.  This  two 
days'  story  is  worth  telling,  partly  because  each 
hour  of  the  two  days  was  dramatic,  partly  because 
there  is  in  the  story  a  lesson  —  a  moral  —  which 
Any  two  who  love  may  sometime  come  to  need. 

There  are  several  years  now  of  Susan's  life  to  be 


SUSAN  LAWTOWS  ESCAPE.  349 

sketched  in  outline  before  we  come  to  those  days 
of  danger  and  escape. 

When  she  and  Mrs.  Lawton  returned  from  Eu 
rope  and  settled  themselves  again  in  their  old  home, 
the  event  produced  no  small  stir  in  all  circles. 
The  two  richest  women  of  the  town,  —  each  young, 
each  enjoying  absolute  control  of  her  property, 
each  bright  and  individual,  each  gay  and  pleasure- 
loving,  and  keeping  together  a  house  of  free  and 
gracious  hospitalities.  What  Susan  Sweetser  and 
Bell  Lawton  did,  said,  wore,  afforded  all  the  mate 
rial  that  a  whole  town  full  of  first-class  gossips  could 
need ;  and  what  Susan  Sweetser  and  Bell  Lawton 
offered  and  provided  and  arranged  for  in  way  of 
hospitable  entertainment  was  enough  to  keep  social 
life  going  from  one  year's  end  to  the  other.  It  is 
not  necessary  to  say  that  they  became  the  leaders 
of  the  town ;  that  their  house  was  its  social  centre. 
First  and  foremost  among  the  men  who  sought  the 
pleasure  and  the  honor  of  familiar  and  friendly 
footing  in  the  house  was  Professor  Edward  Bal- 
loure.  He  found  his  warm-hearted  little  pupil  and 
friend  changed  into  a  brilliant  woman  of  the  world  ; 
no  less  warm-hearted,  no  less  impulsive,  than  of 
old,  but  educated,  trained,  developed,  into  such  a 
woman  as  nothing  but  years  of  European  travel 
and  culture  could  have  produced.  It  was  not  neces 
sary  now  for  Bell  to  explain  social  convenances  to 
Susan.  It  was  not  necessary  for  her  to  point  out 
to  her  the  dangers  of  intimacies  with  men  who  had 


350  SUSAN  LAWTON'S  ESCAPE. 

wives.  Many  men  had  loved,  or  had  seemed  to 
love,  Susan  during  these  years.  She  had  been 
somewhat  moved  two  or  three  times  by  their  pas 
sion  and  devotion  ;  but  she  had  never  really  loved. 
It  began  to  look  as  if  she  were  obdurate  of  nature, 
in  spite  of  all  her  warm-heartedness.  Sometimes  a 
fear  came  into  Bell 's  mind  that  her  old  relation  with 
Edward  Balloure  still  stood  between  Susan  and 
all  other  men ;  and  when  she  saw  the  professor  at 
his  post  again,  handsome,  brilliant,  fascinating,  as 
ever,  devoted  as  ever,  plausible  as  ever,  in  his  as 
sumption  of  the  role  of  a  privileged  mentor,  Bell 
Lawton  groaned  and  said  within  herself,  "  How  is 
such  a  man  as  this  ever  to  be  circumvented  ?  "  A 
sort  of  hate  grew  up  in  her  heart  toward  him. 
Edward  Balloure  recognized  it ;  he  had  the  keenest 
of  instincts,  and  knew  on  the  instant  the  woman 
who  trusted  and  admired  him  from  the  woman  who 
unconsciously  shrank  away  when  he  approached 
her.  But  he  only  laughed  cynically  when  he  saw 
poor  Bell 's  desperate  efforts  to  be  civil  to  him,  and 
said  in  his  cold-blooded  heart :  — 

"  She  's  much  mistaken,  if  she  thinks  she  can 
come  between  Susan  and  me." 

Bell  had  too  much  good  sense  to  try.  Beyond 
an  occasional  half  laughing  or  satirical  reference  to 
Professor  Balloure's  devotion,  she  avoided  the  sub 
ject.  She  made  no  attempt  to  exclude  him  from  the 
house.  On  the  contrary,  she  endeavored  to  make 
\  evident  to  the  whole  world  that  he  was  one  of 


SUSAN  LA  WTON'S  ESCAPE.  35  1 

their  established,  intimate  friends, — her  o\\n,  as 
well  as  Susan's.  And  she  absolutely  compelled 
poor  Mrs.  Balloure's  continual  presence  with  her 
husband  on  all  occasions  of  special  festivity,  until 
the  poor  woman  relaxed  a  little  from  her  rigid  se 
verity,  and  became,  as  Susan  ungenerously  re 
marked  one  day,  "  a  little  less  like  the  death's  head 
at  the  banquet." 

Susan's  own  manner  to  the  professor  baffled 
Bell's  utmost  scrutiny  ;  it  was  always  open  as  day  \ 
always  affectionate  ;  always  reverential  ;  but  there 
was  a  look  now  in  her  eyes  when  they  rested  on  his 
face  which  made  Bell  uneasy.  It  was  a  groping, 
questioning  look,  as  if  she  were  feeling  her  way  in 
the  dark  ;  it  was  a  great  change  from  Susan's  old 
child-like  trust.  Edward  Balloure  himself  felt  this, 
and  was  more  disconcerted  by  it  than  he  would 
have  been  by  any  form  of  direct  and  distrustful  in 
quiry.  It  put  him  perpetually  on  his  guard  ;  led 
him  to  be  always  discreet,  even  in  his  closest  and 
most  intimate  moments  with  Susan :  much  more 
discreet  than  he  would  otherwise  have  been  ;  for 
day  by  day,  Edward  Balloure  was  learning  to  love 
Susan  Sweetser  more  and  more  warmly.  The 
vague  remoteness  in  which  she  held  herself ;  the 
strange  charm  of  mingled  reverence  and  doubt,  af 
fection  and  withdrawal  in  her  manner  toward  him, 
held  him  under  a  spell  which  no  other  woman  could 
have  woven.  She  was  an  endlessly  interesting  study 
to  him,  and  that  is  the  strongest  fascination  which 
one  human  being  can  possess  for  another. 


352  SUSAN  LAWTON'S  ESCAPE. 

Among  all  the  men  who  visited  at  the  house,  ard 
who  were  evident  admirers  of  Susan,  the  only  one 
whom  Edward  Balloure  feared  was  Tom  Lawton, 
a  distant  cousin  of  Bell's  husband.  If  Professor 
Balloure  had  said  to  any  one  in  the  town  that  Tom 
Lawton  was  the  one  man  he  thought  Susan  Sweet- 
ser  might  possibly  marry,  the  remark  would  have 
been  greeted  with  exclamations  of  surprise,  and 
possibly  laughter. 

Tom  Lawton  was  a  lawyer ;  a  plodding,  hard 
working  lawyer,  not  a  pleader ;  there  was  not  a 
trace  of  the  rhetorician  about  Tom ;  he  could  not 
have  made  a  speech  in  court  to  have  saved  his  life 

He  made  very  few  anywhere,  for  that  matter 
But  for  a  good,  sound,  common-sense  opinion  ;  for 
slow,  sure,  accurate  working-up  of  a  case ;  for 
shrewd  dealing  with,  and  reading  of,  human  nat 
ure,  men  went  to  Tom  Lawton.  When  Susan  and 
Bell  returned  from  Europe,  Tom,  being  the  nearest 
relative  Bell  had  at  hand,  drifted  very  naturally  into 
the  position  of  chief  adviser  in  the  affairs  of  the 
two  women.  He  was  a  man  of  such  habitual  quiet 
of  manner,  that  one  grew  almost  immediately  ac 
customed  to  his  presence,  and  felt  at  home  with 
him.  All  dogs  and  all  children  ran  to  him ;  and 
his  dark,  blue-grey  eye,  which  had  usually  a  half 
stern  look,  twinkled  instantly  whenever  he  stoopea 
to  them.  He  was  not  good-looking.  His  face  had 
nothing  striking  about  it,  except  its  expression  of 
absolute  honesty,  good-will,  and  a  certain  sort  oi 


SUSAN  LAWTON' S  ESCAPE.  353 

indomitableness  which  came  very  near  looking  like 
obstinacy,  and  no  doubt  did  often  take  on  that 
shape.  His  figure  was  stout  and  ungraceful ;  and 
long  years  of  solitary,  hard  work  had  given  him  the 
manners  of  a  recluse,  and  not  of  a  man  of  the 
world.  Before  Edward  Balloure  had  seen  Tom 
Lawton  one  hour  in  Susan  Sweetser's  presence,  he 
knew  that  he  loved  her.  Tom  made  no  effort  to 
join  the  circle  of  gay  talkers  of  which  she  was  the 
centre  ;  he  did  not  pay  her  one  of  the  most  ordi 
nary  attentions  of  society ;  but  he  watched  her 
with  a  steady,  contented  gaze,  which  to  Edward 
Balloure's  sharpened  instinct  was  unmistakable. 

Professor  Balloure  had  had  occasion  to  know 
some  of  Tom  Lawton's  traits  very  thoroughly. 
They  had  encountered  each  other  once,  in  some 
business  matters  where  trusts  were  involved,  and 
where  the  professor's  interests  and  Tom's  sense  of 
honor  had  been  at  variance.  The  calm  immova- 
bleness  which  Tom  had  opposed  to  every  influence 
brought  to  bear  on  him  ;  his  entire  superiority  to  all 
considerations  save  the  one  of  absolute  right ;  and 
his  dogged  indifference  to  any  amount  of  antago 
nism  and  resentment,  had  altogether  made  up  an 
aggregate  of  opposition  such  as  the  professor  rarely 
encountered.  He  chose  to  call  it  Quixotic  obsti 
nacy  ;  but  in  his  heart  he  admired  it,  and  respected 
Tom  Lawton  more  than  any  man  he  knew. 

"  If  he  makes  up  his  mind  to  marry  Susan  he  '11 
Urin  her  sooner  or  later,"  said  the  professor  to  him- 
23 


354  SUSAN  LAWTON'S  ESCAPE. 

self.  "They're  made  of  the  same  stuff;  but  she 
does  n't  care  anything  about  him  yet,"  and  Edward 
Balloure  groaned  inwardly  and  cursed  the  fate 
which  stood  in  shape  of  a  poor  helpless  woman 
between  him  and  this  girl  whom  he  so  wilfully  and 
sinfully  loved. 

It  was  quite  true,  as  the  professor  had  said,  that 
Susan  did  not  as  yet  care  anything  for  Tom  Law- 
ton.  In  her  girlhood  she  had  been  used  to  seeing 
him  come  and  go  in  her  uncle's  house,  quietly  and 
familiarly ;  his  silent  presence  had  produced  no  im 
pression  on  her  fancy  ;  in  fact  she  hardly  remem 
bered  him  when  she  first  met  him  after  her  return 
from  Europe.  But  it  was  not  many  weeks  before 
the  quality  in  Tom's  steady  gaze,  which  had  pene 
trated  Edward  Balloure's  consciousness,  penetrated 
Susan's  also.  She  became  afraid  that  Tom  was 
beginning  to  love  her  too  well. 

"  Dear  Tom  ! "  she  thought  to  herself.  "  The 
dear  fellow !  What  shall  I  do  ?  Whatever  put 
such  a  thought  into  his  head  ?  How  shall  I  stop 
him  ?  I  don't  want  him  to  fall  in  love  with  me," 
and  in  the  most  right-minded  way  Susan  set  herself 
to  work  to  prevent  what  had  already  happened.  It 
had  once  been  Susan's  belief  that  any  woman 
could  save  any  man  the  pain  of  a  direct  refusal ; 
but  the  fallacy  of  this  belief  in  individual  cases  she 
had  been  taught  by  some  trying  experiences.  How 
ever,  she  still  clung  to  her  theory,  and  endeavored 
to  carry  it  out  in  practice  as  conscientiously  as  if 


SUSAN  LAWTOWS  ESCAPE.  355 

she  had  never  discovered  it  fallible ;  and  nianv  a 
man  had  in  his  heart  reverently  thanked  Susan 
Sweetser  for  having  graciously  and  kindly  made  it 
clear  to  him  that  he  must  not  love  her.  But  this 
Tom  was  not  on  a  footing  to  be  dealt  with  by  the 
subtle  processes  which  told  on  a  less  familiar  friend. 
If  he  had  been  Bell's  own  brother,  Bell  could  not 
have  trusted  him  or  loved  him  more,  or  have  given 
him  mere  unqualifiedly  the  freedom  of  the  house. 
That  she  never  once  thought  of  the  possibility  of  his 
falling  in  love  with  Susan  was  owing  partly  to  the 
quiet,  middle-aged  seriousness  of  his  manner  and 
ways,  partly  to  her  absorption  in  her  anxiety  about 
Professor  Balloure's  relation  to  Susan,  and  hers  to 
him.  And  so  the  months  went  on,  and  the  girls 
lived  their  gay  and  busy  life,  and  every  hour  that 
could  be  spared  from  his  business,  Tom  was  with 
them,  as  unquestionedly  and  naturally  as  if  he  had 
been  their  legal  protector.  Indeed  it  was  not  in 
frequently  supposed  by  strangers,  that  he  was  the 
head  of  the  house. 

Susan  was  uneasy.  She  was  distressed.  She 
had  come  to  have  so  true  an  affection  for  Tom  that 
the  thought  of  having  to  inflict  on  him  at  some  not 
very  distant  day  so  cruel  a  hurt  as  to  refuse  his 
love  was  terrible  to  her. 

"  If  only  he  could  know  beforehand,"  she  said, 
"  he  could  leave  off  loving  me  just  as  well  as  not. 
He  is  one  of  those  quiet,  undemonstrative  men 
lhat  can  make  up  their  mind  to  love  any  woman 
Uiat  they  think  best  to  love." 


356  SUSAN  LAWTOWS  ESCAPE. 

From  which  it  is  plainly  to  be  seen  that  Susan 
did  not  yet  know  men  analytically.  She  was  yet 
too  much  under  the  influence  of  the  presence  of 
an  idealist  who  could  talk  eloquently  and  mysteri 
ously  on  the  subject  of  unconquerable  passions. 
Susan  made  several  blundering  attempts  to  make 
Tom  see  what  she  wanted  him  to  see ;  but  Tom 
was  obtuse  ;  he  was  basking  in  the  sun  of  Susan's 
presence,  and  not  acknowledging  to  himself  dis 
tinctly  that  he  wanted  her  for  his  wife.  Susan  was 
right  in  one  respect  :  Tom  was  quite  capable  of 
leaving  off  loving  her  if  he  resolved  to.  But  it 
would  take  more  to  make  him  resolve  to  than 
Susan  supposed.  At  last,  one  day,  in  one  of  those 
sudden,  unpremeditated,  accidental  moments  which 
are  always  happening  between  men  and  women 
whose  relations  are  not  clear,  there  came  a  chance 
for  Susan  to  say,  —  exactly  what  she  never  knew, 
and  Tom  never  could  tell  her,  but  something  which 
made  Tom  understand  clearly  that  she  wanted  to 
save  him  from  falling  in  love  with  her. 

Tom  looked  at  her  for  one  second  with  a  gaze 
which  was  stern  in  its  intensity ;  then  he  said  :  — 

"  You  're  a  good,  kind,  true  girl,  Sue.  Don't  you 
worry  about  me.  I  'm  all  right." 

And  poor  Susan  was  seized  with  the  most  mor 
tifying  fear  that  she  had  spoken  needlessly.  "  Oh, 
dear  !  "  she  thought,  "  if  it  were  anybody  but  Tom 
how  I  should  feel  !  But  he  is  so  good,  h',  'd  never 
misunderstand  a  woman  nor  laugh  at  her  1  " 


SUSAN  LAWTON'S  ESCAPE.  357 

And  everything  went  on  the  same  as  before. 
Tom's  eyes  told  just  as  plainly  as  ever  that  he 
loved  the  very  spot  where  Susan  stood.  Bell 
looked  on  unconscious.  Edward  Balloure  looked 
on  in  sullen  despair.  The  world  began  to  say  that 
Tom  Lawton  cared  about  Susan  Sweetser,  and  how 
absurd  it  was !  He  might  know  that  a  brilliant 
girl  like  that  was  never  going  to  marry  a  plodding, 
middle-aged  fellow  like  him  ;  and  Susan,  mean 
while, —  poor,  perplexed  Susan!  —  was  perpetually 
asking  herself  whether,  after  all,  Tom  had  really 
loved  her  or  not.  Weeks,  months,  a  year  went  by, 
and  to  outside  observers  no  change  had  come  to 
any  member  of  the  little  group.  But  the  years 
write  their  records  on  human  hearts  as  they  do  on 
trees,  in  hidden  inner  circles  of  growth,  which  no 
eye  can  see.  When  the  tree  falls,  men  may  gather 
around  and  count  the  rings  about  its  centre,  and 
know  how  many  times  its  sap  has  chilled  in  winter 
and  glowed  in  spring.  We  wrap  ourselves  in  the 
merciful  veils  of  speech  and  behavior,  and  nobody 
can  tell  what  a  year  has  done  to  us.  Luckily,  even 
if  we  die,  there  is  no  sure  sign  which  betrays  us. 
As  I  said,  at  the  end  of  a  year  no  change  which  an 
outside  observer  would  detect  had  come  to  any 
member  of  the  little  group.  But  if  at  any  moment 
the  hearts  of  Susan  Sweetser,  Tom  Lawton,  and 
Edward  Balloure  had  been  uncovered  to  the  gaze 
Df  the  world,  there  would  have  been  revelations 
startling  to  all. 


358  SUSAN  LAWTON'S  ESCAPE. 

Tom  loved  Snsan  now  with  a  calm,  concentrated 
purpose  of  making  her  his  wife.  There  was  in  his 
feeling  for  her  none  of  the  impatience  of  a  fiery 
passion.  He  would  not  have  rebelled  had  he  been 
told  that  she  would  not  be  his  for  years,  so  that  he 
had  been  sure  of  her  at  last.  He  had  gradually 
taken  his  position  with  her  as  her  constant  attend 
ant,  protector,  adviser.  In  a  myriad  of  ways  he 
had  made  himself  part  of  her  daily  life,  and  this, 
too,  without  once  coming  on  the  ordinary  lover's 
ground  of  gifts,  attentions,  compliments.  He  never 
even  sent  her  flowers  ;  he  never  even  said  a  flatter 
ing  thing  to,  or  of,  her.  He  simply  sat  by  her  side, 
looked  at  her,  and  took  care  of  her.  How  Edward 
Balloure  chafed  at  all  this  is  easy  to  imagine. 
When  he  met  Tom  in  Sue's  presence,  —  and  he  was 
seldom  out  of  it  except  in  business  hours,  —  he  eyed 
him  sometimes  fiercely,  sometimes  almost  implor 
ingly.  Tom  had  for  Edward  Balloure  but  one  look, 
but  one  tone,  —  that  of  concealed  contempt ;  the 
barest  civility  was  all  he  could  wrench  from  himself 
for  the  man  whom  he  knew  to  be  base,  but  whom 
Susan  reverenced  and  loved.  And  Susan  !  It  must 
be  a  more  skillful  pen  than  mine  which  could  an 
alyze  the  conflicting  emotions  which  filled  Susan's 
heart  now.  Professor  Balloure  occupied  her  imag 
ination  to  a  greater  degree  than  she  knew.  She 
'dealized  him,  and  then  let  her  thoughts  dwell  on 
the  ideal  she  had  made.  She  was  full  of  sentiment 
ibout  him,  she  leaned  on  his  intellect,  sought  his 


SUSAN  LAWTON'S  ESCAPE.  359 

opinions,  was  stimulated  by  his  society.  She  talked 
better  to  him,  and  before  him,  than  under  any 
other  circumstances.  She  yielded  to  him  in  many 
matters,  small  and  great,  as  she  had  yielded  when 
he  was  her  teacher.  She  knew,  also,  her  great 
power  over  him.  In  the  bottom  of  her  heart  she 
knew  that  he  loved  her,  though  never  once  had  he 
said  to  her  a  word  which  could  offend  her  delicate 
sense  of  right.  But  one  day,  in  a  sudden  and  irre 
pressible  mood,  he  had  poured  out  to  Mrs.  Lawton 
such  passionate  avowals  of  his  long  admiration  and 
affection  for  Susan  that  Bell  had  been  terrified,  and 
had  spoken  to  him  with  the  utmost  severity.  He 
pleaded  so  persistently  to  be  forgiven,  and  more 
over  argued  so  plausibly  that  she  had  totally  mis 
conceived  the  real  meaning  of  all  he  had  said,  that 
he  made  Bell  feel  ashamed  of  having  resented  his 
words,  and  half  guilty  herself  of  having  misinter 
preted  them.  Wily  Edward  Balloure  !  He  thought 
that  Bell  would  tell  Susan  of  their  conversation, 
and  he  watched  the  next  day  for  some  trace  of  its 
influence  upon  her.  No  trace  was  there.  Her  man 
ner  was  as  cordial  as  ever,  —  no  more,  no  less  so  ; 
and  the  professor  could  never  make  up  his  mind 
whether  she  had  been  told  or  not. 

One  day  when  Tom  had  been  taking  unusual 
pains  about  some  matters  for  Susan,  she  looked  up 
at  him  and  said  with  a  sudden  and  shame-stricken 
sense  of  how  much  she  was  perpetually  receiving 
at  his  hands  :  — 


360  SUSAN  LAW  TON1  S  ESCAPE. 

"Oh,  Tom  !  how  good  you  are  !  It  is  n't  fair  foi 
you  to  be  with  me  all  the  time,  so " 

"  Is  n't  fair !  "  exclaimed  Tom.  "  What  do  you 
mean  ? " 

Susan  colored,  but  did  not  speak.  He  under 
stood. 

*'  Do  you  dislike  to  have  me  with  you  all  the 
time  ? "  he  asked,  emphatically. 

"  Oh,  no  !  "  cried  Susan  ;  "  no.  You  know  it 
is  n't  that" 

"Then  I  am  content,"  replied  he.  "It  is  all 
right." 

Susan  made  no  reply.  Her  eyes  were  fixed  on 
the  ground.  Something  he  saw  in  her  face  made 
Tom  bolder  than  one  moment  before  he  would 
have  dared  to  be. 

"  One  of  these  years,  Sue,  you  and  I  will  be  mar 
ried,"  he  said,  quietly. 

She  started,  turned  red,  then  pale,  and  stam 
mered  :  — 

"  Why,  Tom,  I  told  you  long  ago '' 

"Oh,  yes,"  —  he  interrupted  her  in  a  placid  tone, 
—  "  that 's  all  right.  I  understand  it.  It  will  be 
just  as  you  say ;  but  one  of  these  years  you  '11  think 
it  right,"  and  Tom  began  to  talk  about  something 
else  as  naturally  and  calmly  as  if  no  exciting  topic 
had  been  broached. 

When  Susan  thought  over  this  extraordinary  con 
versation  she  laughed  and  she  cried.  At  one  mo 
ment  she  thought  it  the  most  audacious  imperti 


SUSAN  LAWTON^S  ESCAPE.  361 

nence  a  man  ever  committed  ;  the  next  instant  she 
thought  it  the  sweetest  daring  that  love  ever  dared, 
and  a  strange  surrender  of  herself  to  its  prophecy 
began  in  that  very  hour.  No  wonder.  The  predic 
tion  had  almost  a  preternatural  sound,  as  Tom  said 
it ;  and  while  he  spoke  his  eyes  rested  on  hers  with 
an  authoritative  tenderness  which  was  very  compel  • 
ling. 

After  this  day,  Susan  never  felt  sure  that  Tom 
was  not  right.  After  this  day,  Tom  never  felt  a 
doubt;  and  from  this  day,  Edward  Balloure  per 
ceived  in  Susan  a  change  which  he  could  not  de 
fine,  but  which  made  him  uncomfortable.  The 
searching,  probing,  questioning  look  in  her  eyes 
was  gone.  The  affection  remained,  but  the  eager, 
restless  inquiry  had  ceased.  Had  she  found  out? 
Or  had  she  left  off  caring  to  know? 

One  day,  in  an  impatient  and  ill-natured  tone, 
Professor  Balloure  said  to  Susan  :  — 

"  Does  Mr.  Lawton  really  live  in  this  house  ?  I 
confess  it  is  something  of  a  trial  that  none  of  your 
friends  can  ever  see  you  without  having  his  com 
pany  inflicted  on  them.  He  is  a  very  stupid  man." 

Susan  fixed  her  brown  eyes  steadily  on  Professor 
Balloure's  face. 

"  If  any  of  our  friends  find  Mr.  Lawton's  com 
pany  an  infliction,  they  know  how  to  avoid  it.  We 
do  not  think  him  a  stupid  person,  and  I  trust  him 
more  than  any  other  man  1  know,"  and,  with  this 
sudden  and  most  unexpected  shot.  Susan  walked 
%way  and  sat  down  at  the  piano. 


362  SUSAN  LAWTON'S  ESCAPE. 

Edward  Balloure  was,  for  once,  dumb.  When 
Susan  stopped  playing,  he  bent  over  her  and  said 
in  a  low  tone  :  — 

"  I  hope  you  will  forgive  me.  I  never  dreamed 
that  you  had  so  strong  a  regard  for  Mr.  Lawton. 
I  thought  he  was  Mrs.  Lawton's  friend,  and  some 
how  I  had  often  fancied  that  he  bored  you." 

"  You  were  never  more  mistaken  in  your  life, 
Professor  Balloure,"  answered  Susan,  composedly. 
"  Mr.  Lawton  is  a  person  who  makes  you  contented 
by  his  simple  presence,  —  he  is  so  quiet,  and  yet 
so  full  of  vitality." 

"  She  has  studied  Mr.  Lawton  then,  feels  a 
charm  in  his  presence,  and  has  reflected  upon  it 
enough  to  analyze  it."  All  this  passed  through  the 
professor's  mind,  and  gave  a  peculiar  bitterness  to 
the  coldly  civil  tone  in  which  he  replied,  "  Ah  !  I 
should  not  have  thought  that  possible.  It  is  only 
another  of  the  many  illustrations  of  the  difference 
between  the  feminine  and  the  masculine  standards 
of  judging  men." 

Susan  colored,  and  was  about  to  speak  indig 
nantly,  changed  her  mind,  closed  her  lips  and 
smiled,  and  when  Edward  Balloure  saw  the  smile, 
his  heart  sank  within  him.  By  that  smile  he  knew 
that  his  reign,  so  far  as  it  had  been  a  reign,  was 
,wer,  and  Tom  Lawton's  had  begun. 

Two  weeks  from  that  day  Professor  and  Mrs. 
Balloure  sailed  for  Europe.  The  sudden  announce 
ment  of  their  plans  caused  no  astonishment ;  it  had 


SUSAfi  LAWTCN'S  ESCAPE.  363 

always  been  tbi  professor's  way  to  set  off  at  a 
day's  notice.  He  had  been  a  restless  and  insatia 
ble  traveler.  But  when  it  was  known  that  his 
house  was  offered  for  rent,  furnished,  for  three 
years,  then  people  did  wonder  what  was  taking  him 
away  for  so  long  a  time.  Nobody  but  Edward  Bal- 
foure  knew.  Bell  Lawton  suspected,  but  said  noth 
ing,  and  Susan  did  not  so  much  as  dream.  She 
was  surprised  at  herself,  and  had  a  half-guilty  feel 
ing  that  she  did  not  more  keenly  regret  his  going. 
When  she  bade  him  good-by,  she  said,  lightly :  — 

"  Who  knows  where  we  shall  meet  next  ?  Bell 
and  I  may  run  over  next  summer.  We  have  talked 
of  it." 

"  If  I  could  think  that,  I  should  be  very  glad, 
indeed,"  replied  the  professor,  earnestly.  "  But 
you  will  not  come." 

"What  did  he  mean  by  that,  Bell  ? "  said  Susan's 
ifter  he  had  gone.  "  How  does  he  know  what  we 
will  do  ?  " 

Mrs.  Lawton  laughed,  and  skipping  up  to  Susan's 
tide,  kissed  her  on  the  forehead,  and  sang :  — 

"  How  does  anybody  know  what  anybody  will 
do? 

"  '  Wooed  and  married  and  a,' 

Kissed  and  carried  awa', 

Is  na  the  lassie  well  aff 

That 's  wooed  and  married  and  a'  ?  "; 

This  chorus  of  an  old  Scotch  ballad  had  been 
much  on  Mrs.  Bell  Lawton's  lips  of  late. 


364  SUSAN-  LAWTON'S  ESCAPE. 

"Bell !  "  exclaimed  Susan  ;  "  are  you  going  to  be 
married  ? " 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Bell.    "  And  you,  Miss  Susan  ? " 

"  No,"  said  Susan,  stoutly.  "  No  !  And  you 
sha  n't  be.  I  can't  spare  you." 

At  this  moment  Tom  entered,  and  Bell  ran  out 
of  the  room,  singing :  — 

"  '  Wooed  and  married  and  a', 
Kissed  and  carried  awa'  ! '  " 


"Who's  married  now?  "  asked  Tom. 

"  Nobody,"  replied  Susan.  "  But  I  'm  afraid  Bell 
will  be." 

"Why,  Sue  !  "  said  Tom  ;  "  it  is  n't  possible  that 
you  have  not  seen  all  along  that  Bell  would  surely 
marry  Fred  Ballister  ?  " 

Susan  looked  aghast. 

"  I  never  thought  of  such  a  thing,"  she  ex 
claimed.  "  Why,  what  will  become  of  me  ?  " 

Tom  looked  in  her  face  without  speaking.  If 
he  had  been  a  less  reticent,  less  obstinate  man,  he 
would  have  poured  out  a  voluble  torrent  of  words 
just  then  ;  but  he  did  not  open  his  lips.  He  knew 
that  Susan  knew  what  his  look  meant.  Yet  he 
might  have  made  it  less  hard  for  her.  What  could 
she  say  ?  She  flushed  and  lowered  her  eyes,  and 
finally  said  :  — 

"  Oh,  Tom  !  " 

There  was  a  world  of  appeal  in  the  exclamation, 


SUSAN  LAW  TON'S  ESCAPE.  365 

if   Tom  would   only  have   understood  it;   but  he 
would  not,  —  would  not  or  did  not. 

"  All  right,  Sue  !  All  right !  "  he  said,  cheerily. 
"  I  shall  never  urge  you.  One  of  these  days  you  '1\ 
think  it  right  to  marry  me.  You  '11  know  when  the 
time  comes.  All  must  be  clear." 

Susan  could  have  cried  with  vexation.  Did  he 
mean  to  punish  her  for  having  gratuitously  refused 
him  before  he  had  ever  offered  himself  to  her  in 
words  ?  No,  surely  Tom  was  too  noble  for  that. 
Did  he  expect  her  to  say  to  him  in  so  many  words, 
"  Dear  Tom,  I  am  ready  to  marry  you  now  ?  "  Did 
she  really  and  heartily  want  to  marry  him  after  all  ? 
She  was  happier  when  he  was  with  her  than  when 
he  was  away.  If  a  day  passed  without  her  seeing 
him  she  was  restless  and  ill  at  ease.  She  found 
herself  in  all  her  plans  and  projects  leaning  on 
him,  including  him  as  inevitably  as  if  they  belonged 
to  each  other.  But  was  this  love  ?  Susan  was  not 
wholly  sure.  Altogether  Susan  was  quite  misera 
ble,  and  none  the  less  so,  it  must  be  acknowledged, 
because  Tom  seemed  so  light-hearted,  so  content, 
so  thoroughly  at  rest  and  satisfied  with  the  state  of 
things.  Wise  fellow !  he  had  reason  to  be. 

"  I  don't  believe  he  really  cares  very  much  for 
me,"  said  Susan,  pettishly,  to  Bell  one  day.  "  If  I 
were  to  tell  him  positively  to-morrow  that  I  would 
never  marry  him,  I  don't  believe  that  he  would 
urind  it  much." 

"  Oh,   Sue,  how  can   you  say  so  ?  "  cried   Bell 


366  SUSAN  LAWTOlv^   ESCAPE. 

"  Look  at  these  last  two  years.  Has  Tom  been 
out  of  your  presence  one  hour  when  he  could  be  in 
it;  ? " 

''  No,"  said  Sue.  "  That 's  one  way  he  's  brought 
me  into  this  uncomfortable  state  about  him.  I  'in 
so  used  to  him,  I  never  could  do  without  him  in 
the  world." 

"Of  course  you  can't,"  said  Bell;  "and  when 
I  'rn  married  "  —  Bell's  engagement  to  Mr.  Ballister 
was  now  formally  acknowledged  —  "you  can't  go 
on  living  here  alone  ;  and  as  for  your  getting  any 
'  lady  companion '  to  live  with  you,  that 's  out  of 
the  question.  You  '11  never  find  another  such 
saint  as  I  Ve  been  to  put  up  with  your  ways.  My ! 
what  I  Ve  borne  in  these  last  five  years !  No, 
Miss,  you  'd  better  take  to  yourself  a  husband,  and 
of  all  the  good,  true,  sterling  men  in  this  world, 
Tom  's  the  best,  excepting  Fred." 

"  I  know  it,"  said  Sue,  forlornly.  "  I  told  Pro 
fessor  Balloure  not  long  ago  that  I  trusted  Tom 
more  than  I  trusted  any  other  man  in  the  world." 

"  Did  you?"  cried  Bell.  "Did  you  say  that  to 
Edward  Balloure?  Oh,  I'm  so  glad.  Oh,  Sue, 
you  '11  never  know  how  I  Ve  worried  about  that 
man's  influence  over  you.  I  don't  believe  in  him, 
and  I  never  did,  and  if  his  wife  had  died  any  time, 
you  'd  have  married  him  as  true  as  fate." 

"  I  think  not,"  said  Susan,  reflectively.  "  I  am 
Afraid  I  don't  believe  in  him  either,  and  yet  it  seems 
so  horribly  ungrateful  after  all  he  has  done  foi 


SUSAN  LA  WTON^S  ESCAPE.  367 

"  Well,  he 's  safe  out  of  the  way  now,  thank 
heaven,"  said  Bell.  "  That  's  one  good  thing. 
And  you  Ve  got  to  make  up  your  mind  about 
Tom." 

"  Well,  why  does  n't  he  make  me  ?  "  said  Susan. 

"  Susan  Lawton,"  said  Bell,  "  you  ought  to  know 
Tom  better.  He  knows  that  you  know  that  he  is 
ready  and  longing  to  make  you  his  wife  at  any  hour, 
and  he  will  never  urge  you,  —  not  if  you  keep  him 
waiting  on  and  on  till  you  are  both  gray." 

"  I  wonder,"  said  Susan . 

"No,"  replied  Bell,  "he  never  will.  He's  as 
obstinate  as  a  rock,  and  more  than  that,  he  does  n't 
want  you  for  his  wife  till  you  want  him  for  your 
husband.  Tom  is  proud  as  Lucifer  in  his  heart." 

"  But,  Bell,"  pleaded  Susan,  "  I  can't  go  to  Tom 
and  say,  *  please  take  me.'  He  had  a  good  chance 
a  few  days  ago  when  he  first  told  me  you  were  going 
to  marry  Fred,  and  all  he  said  was :  *  All  right,  Sue, 
all  right,' "  and  Susan  laughed  in  spite  of  herself 
at  the  recollection. 

Bell  laughed  too,  but  she  was  vexed  and  anxious 
to  see  two  people  at  such  cross-purposes.  Her 
own  wooing  and  winning  had  been  so  smooth,  so 
entirely  in  accordance  with  the  conventional  usages 
and  customs,  that  she  sympathized  freely  in  Susan's 
position. 

"  I  should  n't  like  it  myself,"  thought  Bell.  "  1 
should  never  stand  it  if  Fred  treated  me  that  way. 
But  I  know  Fred  would  n't  really  do  any  more  foi 


368  SUSAN  LAWTOM'S  ESCAPE. 

me  than  Tom  would  for  Sue.     I  believe  I  '11  speak 
to  him." 

"  Speaking  to  him  "  was  not  so  easy.  Several 
well-meant  and  carefully  planned  little  speeches  of 
Bell's  died  away  on  her  lips  when  she  found  herself 
face  to  face  with  Tom.  And  time  was  slipping 
away.  Her  own  wedding  was  to  come  off  in  a  few 
months,  and  what  could  poor  Sue  do  ?  Mrs.  Bell 
Lawton  was  much  perplexed.  At  last  one  day  she 
took  a  desperate  step.  Tom  had  dined  with  them. 
After  dinner  they  were  all  sitting  together  in  the 
library.  Bell  rose,  looked  them  both  in  the  face 
for  a  moment  with  a  half  comic,  half  severe  glance, 
and  said  :  — 

"  Now,  I  tell  you  what  it  is  ;  it  is  high  time  you 
two  decided  what  you  were  going  to  do.  Something 
has  got  to  be  done.  Now,  I  'm  going  to  leave  you, 
and  if  you  don't  straighten  out  things,  I  won't 
speak  to  either  of  you  again,"  and  she  marched 
out  of  the  room. 

Tom  looked  at  Susan,  who  said,  nervously. 

"  Oh,  how  queer  Bell  is  !  " 

"  She  is  right,"  said  Tom.  And  then  he  looked 
at  Susan,  and  continued  looking  at  her,  and  said 
nothing. 

Moments  passed. 

Susan  could  not  bear  the  silence  another  mo 
ment. 

"  Tom !  "  she  cried,  "  tell  me  just  once,  would 
fou  really  mind  very  much  if  I  did  n't  marry  you  ? ' 


SUSAN  LAWTON1  S  ESCAPE.  369 

Tom  thought  for  a  second  that  this  must  mean 
that  after  all,  his  hopes  had  been  unfounded  ;  that 
Susan  had  at  last  decided  that  she  ought  not  to 
marry  him.  He  turned  pale,  and  spoke  very 
slowly. 

"  Yes,  it  would  be  a  very  great  disappointment 

to  me,"  he  said.  "  But "  He  would  probably 

have  finished  his  sentence  with  his  characteristic 
phrase,  "It's  all  right,  Sue,  all  right,"  if  he  had 
not  just  then  looked  up.  Tears  were  in  Sue's  eyes, 
and  her  hands  were  stretched  toward  him. 

"  Oh,  Tom  !  "  she  cried,  "  if  you  really  have  been 
so  sure,  why  have  n't  you  made  me  come  to  you 
before  ?  " 

"  So  there  was  never  a  day  without  a  Mrs, 
Thomas  Lawton  in  town,  after  all,"  wrote  Bell,  de 
scribing  her  own  and  Sue's  wedding  to  a  friend. 

"  We  were  married  first,  —  Sue  and  Tom  would 
have  it  so,  —  and  as  soon  as  the  ministei  had  made 
me  into  Mrs.  Fred  Ballister,  he  hurried  on  to  make 
Sue  into  me.  It  is  really  very  odd  to  hear  her 
called  Mrs.  Lawton.  I  don't  get  used  to  it.  But, 
my  dear,  if  you  want  to  see  two  happy  people,  you 
just  ought  to  see  Tom  and  Sue.  I  declare  it  is 
inarvelous.  You  would  n't  think  they  were  in  the 
least  suited  to  each  other.  You  know,  dear  Tom 
is  queer  to  the  last  degree.  Much  as  I  love  him  I 
never  could  live  with  him.  I  've  always  said  so 
But  Sue  manages  him  most  beautifully,  and  no  won- 


370  SUSAN  LAWTON'S  ESCAPE. 

der,  for  she  never  even  looks  at  him  without  such 
love  in  her  eyes  —  I  did  n't  think  Sue  had  it  in  her. 
Fred  is  quite  jealous.  He  says  that  the  other  Mrs. 
Tom  Lawton  is  the  woman  he  ought  to  have  mar 
ried.  She  is  a  woman  that  knows  how  to  appre 
ciate  a  husband." 

And  now,  where  other  stories  end,  this  story 
begins.  For  it  was  four  years  after  Susan  Lawton's 
marriage  that  she  had  the  "  escape  "  which  it  is  the 
purpose  of  my  story  to  tell,  and  all  this  which  has 
gone  before  has  been  merely  what  it  was  necessary 
that  one  should  know  in  order  to  understand  the 
rest. 

The  relation  between  Tom  and  Susan  had  grown 
constantly  closer  and  sweeter.  It  was  a  very  pecu 
liar  one.  People  did  not  always  understand  it. 
There  were  those  who  were  shallow  enough  to  say 
that  Tom  Lawton  did  not  appreciate  his  wife ;  but 
nobody  would  have  laughed  more  heartily  than  Sue 
herself  at  such  an  accusation  against  Tom.  He 
was  still  as  reticent,  undemonstrative,  as  he  had 
been  in  the  days  of  his  strange  loverhood  ;  but  he 
was  as  sensitive  yet  to  Susan's  voice,  look,  touch, 
as  if  he  were  still  her  lover,  and  not  her  husband. 
What  woman  does  not  know  how  much  this  means  .' 
How  few  women,  alas,  have  had  it  given  to  them 
ro  know  the  joy  of  it ! 

One  day  a  letter  came  to  Sue  from  Bell,  who  was 
ira/eling  in  Europe  with  her  husband. 

"Only  think,"  Bell  wrote,  "poor  Mrs.  Ballourc 


SUSAN  LAWTON'S  ESCAPE.  371 

has  died  at  last.  We  found  her  here,  in  this  hotel. 
She  had  been  ill  for  a  day  or  two,  but  nobody 
thought  anything  of  it.  She  had  the  Roman  fever 
last  winter  and  has  never  been  well  since.  What 
makes  it  worse  is  that  Professor  Balloure  is  away. 
He  has  gone  with  a  party  of  scientific  men  into 
Russia.  They  say  he  has  not  been  with  her  half 
the  time  since  they  came  abroad,  and  that  the  poor 
thing  has  been  quite  broken  —  has  just  sat  still 
patiently  wherever  he  left  her  till  he  saw  fit  to  come 
back.  Oh,  I  've  no  patience  with  that  man !  Well, 
she  died  last  night,  and  nobody  knows  where  to 
telegraph  to  him.  Her  maid  is  a  stupid  thing,  and 
does  n't  seem  to  know  anything.  We  can't  find 
the  professor's  address  anywhere  among  her  pa 
pers,  and  so  Fred  is  seeing  to  everything,  and 
we  Ve  actually  got  to  bury  the  poor  soul  to-mor 
row.  Is  n't  it  the  strangest  thing  you  ever  heard  of, 
that  we  should  have  come  way  out  to  this  outland 
ish  spot,  to  bury  this  townswoman  of  ours,  —  and, 
a  woman  we  always  hated  so,  too  ?  Poor  thing, 
what  a  life  she  has  led  of  it.  And  oh,  have  n't  you 
had  an  escape !  I  declare,  the  second  thing  I 
thought  of  was,  how  glad  I  am  Sue's  married  all 
safe.  I  never  could  have  stood  your  marrying  Ed 
ward  Balloure." 

The  letter  ended  abruptly,  giving  no  more  details, 
\nd,  to  Susan's  great  relief,  no  more  comment  on 
Professor  Balloure.  To  Sue's  loyal,  loving,  wedded 
heart  there  was  something  inexpressibly  shocking 


3/2  SC7SAJV  LAWTOWS  ESCAPE. 

in  Bell's  light  way  of  referring  to  him.  And  it  was 
with  a  real  sense  of  relief  that  she  threw  the  letter 
into  the  fire  after  having  read  Tom  all  of  it  except 
the  last  paragraph. 

"  That 's  the  first  time  in  my  life,"  thought  Susan 
"  that  I  ever  had  anything  I  did  n't  want  Tom  to 
see.  " 

The  consciousness  of  it  hurt  her  to  the  core,  and 
still  more,  she  felt  the  hurt  of  it  the  next  morning. 
She  had  been  talking  with  Tom  about  Mrs.  Bal- 
loure's  death,  and  saying  that  she  hoped  the  pro 
fessor  would  now  marry  a  woman  he  could  love. 

"Well,  he  can't  have  you,  Sue,"  said  Tom, 
dryly. 

Susan  gazed  at  him  in  wonder. 

"  Why,  Tom  Lawton  !  "  she  said,  "  what  do  you 
mean  ?  " 

Tom  looked  at  her  with  a  grave  face. 

"  I  think  you  would  have  married  him,  Sue  ? " 

"  Never !  "  exclaimed  Sue,  "  and  it  is  horrid  of 
you  to  say  such  a  thing.  I  never  trusted  Professor 
Balloure,  and  besides  "  -  Sue  stopped,  colored  — 
"  I  think  I  always  loved  you,  Tom." 

This  speech  of  Tom's  rankled  in  Sue's  mind  all 
day.  It  troubled  her  by  its  reflected  implication 
as  to  the  past.  During  all  those  years  had  Tom 
really  believed  that  she  loved  Professor  Balloure  ? 
Was  that  the  reason  he  had  left  her  so  free  from 
the  urging  with  which  men  usually  seek  women  to 
marry  them  ?  Had  he  —  had  her  frank,  open- 


SUSAN  LAWTON'S  ESCAPE.  3/3 

hearted  Tom  a  secret  capacity  for  jealousy  ?  Ah  ! 
if  he  could  only  know  how  immeasurably  higher 
she  held  him  than  she  had  ever  held  any  other  man  \ 
how  absolutely  his  strong  integrity  and  loyalty  of 
nature  had  won  her  trust  and  her  love  ! 

Later  in  the  day  Sue  sat  down  to  answer  Bell's 
letter.  When  the  letter  was  half  finished,  she  was 
called  away.  She  left  the  letter  lying  open  on  her 
desk. 

When  Tom  came  home  at  night  and  did  not  find 
Sue,  he  had  a  vague  sense  of  discomfort,  as  he  al 
ways  did  when  she  was  not  in  the  house.  Roaming 
about  the  library,  idly,  he  sat  down  at  Sue's  desk, 
saw  the  open  letter,  turned  the  sheet  over  to  find 
out  to  whom  it  was  written,  saw  Bell's  name,  and 
proceeded  to  read  what  Sue  had  written.  Bell's 
letters  to  Sue  and  Sue's  to  her  were  always  common 
property;  there  was  nothing  in  the  least  strange 
in  Tom's  reading  that  letter;  but  this,  alas!  was 
what  he  read.  After  some  comments  on  Mrs.  Bal- 
loure's  death  and  references  to  what  Bell  had  said 
in  regard  to  the  professor's  character,  Sue  had  gone 
on  to  repeat  what  Tom  had  that  morning  said  :  — 
"  What  do  you  suppose,  Bell, "  she  wrote,  "  ever 
put  such  an  idea  into  his  head  ?  Bless  him  !  Dear 
old  fellow  !  How  much  happier,  safer  a  woman  I 
am,  in  every  way,  with  him  than  I  ever  could  have 
been  with  any  other  man  ;  Now,  Bell,  do  be  care 
ful  what  you  write  about  Professor  Balloure,  for  I 
never  have  a  secret  thing  in  the  world  from  Tom, 


3/4  SUSAN"  LAJVTON'S  ESCAPE. 

and  he  might  look  over  my  shoulder  any  minute 
and  read  your  letter." 

This  was  the  way  the  thing  had  lain  in  Sue's 
mind.  Tom's  speech  in  the  morning  had  startled 
her  very  much  by  its  revelation  that  at  some  time 
or  other,  if  not  now,  he  had  felt  a  jealousy  of  Pro 
fessor  Balloure's  regard  for  her.  If  he  had  that 
feeling,  nothing  could  so  strengthen  it  as  this  sort 
of  light  reference  which  Bell  seemed  to  be  inclined 
to  make  to  her  old  notion  that  Sue  would  have  mar 
ried  the  professor. 

"  I  can 't  have  Tom  hurt  by  such  things  being 
said,"  thought  Sue.  "  Bell  might  know  better  than 
to  write  so:  she  always  was  thoughtless.  Why, 
if  he  feels  sensitive  on  the  subject  now,  one  such 
speech  as  that  of  Bell's  might  make  him  believe  all 
his  life  that  I  had  married  him,  loving  some  one 
else  better,"  and  so  Sue  wrote  that  fatal  sentence: 
"  Do  be  careful  what  you  write." 

Tom  sat  still  a  long  time  looking  at  the  words. 

"  So  there  are  secrets  in  connection  with  Ed 
ward  Balloure,"  he  thought,  "which  I  am  not  to 
know." 

The  blow  was  a  more  terrible  one  to  Tom,  from 
the  fact  that  one  of  Sue's  greatest  charms  to  him 
was  the  frankness,  the  bold  truthfulness,  of  her 
character.  Tom's  long  experience  as  a  lawyer  had 
made  him  distrustful  of  average  women.  In  Sue, 
he  had  thought  he  had  found  one  who  was  incapa 
ble  of  deceit ;  and  here  she  was  not  only  concealing 


SUSAN  LAWTON'S  ESCAPE,  375 

something  from  him,  but  warning  her  accomplice 
to  conceal  it  too. 

"  There  was  nothing  which  one  of  them  knew 
that  the  other  did  not,"  thought  Tom,  as  he  sat 
glued  to  the  chair,  and  gazing  at  the  mute,  terrible 
lines.  Finally  he  sprang  up  and  left  the  house. 

Sue  came  home  late,  hoping  to  find  Tom  as 
usual  in  his  big  arm-chair,  reading  the  evening 
newspaper.  The  library  was  dark ;  no  one  was 
there. 

"  Has  not  Mr.  Lawton  been  in  yet  ? " 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  replied  the  servant.  "He  has 
been  in  and  gone  out  again." 

"  How  very  strange,"  thought  Sue.  "  I  wish  he 
was  here." 

She  sat  down  and  finished  her  letter  in  few  words  ; 
then  went  to  the  window  and  watched  for  Tom.  It 
was  long  past  the  dinner  hour  when  he  came  in. 
He  seemed  preoccupied  and  grave.  After  asking 
him  tenderly  if  he  were  ill,  and  if  anything  troubled 
him,  Susan  became  silent.  She  had  learned,  and  it 
was  one  of  the  hardest  lessons  of  her  married  life, 
that  when  Tom  was  tired  or  worried  about  business 
matters,  it  was  better  not  to  talk  to  him.  After 
dinner,  he  sat  down  near  Susan's  table,  and  glanced 
over  the  columns  of  the  newspaper.  The  letter  to 
Bell  lay  on  the  table.  Taking  it  up  he  said  casu- 
illy, 

"  May  I  read  it,  Sue  ? " 

"  Oh,  I  guess  you  don't  care  to  read  it,  this  time, 


376  SUSAN  LAWTON^S  ESCAPE. 

dear,"  she  replied  laughingly,  and  took  it  out  of  his 
hand.  He  made  no  answer,  but  turned  back  to 
his  newspaper.  Presently  he  said  he  must  go  down 
town ;  he  had  an  engagement.  He  kissed  her 
good-by  in  an  absent  sort  of  way  and  was  gone. 

"  Poor  dear  Tom  !  "  thought  Susan.  "  He  cer 
tainly  is  worried  about  something.  It  is  too  bad," 
and  she  set  herself  to  work  to  make  the  best  of  a 
lonely  evening.  The  evenings  which  Tom  spent 
away  from  home  were  so  rare,  that  it  always  seemed 
to  Susan  a  fresh  and  surprising  deprivation  when 
one  occurred.  The  loneliness  of  the  house  to  her 
when  Tom  was  out  of  it,  could  not  be  expressed ; 
the  very  furniture  seemed  to  take  on  a  totally  dif 
ferent  expression.  The  clock  struck  ten,  eleven, 
Tom  did  not  return.  Finally,  Susan  went  to  bed, 
and  fell  asleep,  wondering  what  had  become  of  him. 
The  next  morning  his  face  wore  the  same  grave 
and  unnatural  look.  He  hardly  spoke,  and  when 
he  did  speak,  the  words  were  constrained.  Susan 
was  now  thoroughly  uneasy. 

"  Dear  Tom,"  she  said,  "  do  tell  me  what  is  the 
matter." 

"  Nothing,"  was  the  only  reply  she  could  extract 
from  him. 

"  Tom,  I  know  something  is  the  matter,"  she  ex 
claimed,  vehemently.  "  Are  you  ill  ?  " 

"  Not  in  the  least." 

"  Then  something  has  gone  wrong  in  business 
something  worries  you." 


SUSAN  LAWTON'S  ESCAPE.  377 

"  Nothing  has  gone  wrong :  nothi/ig  worries  me  ' 

Cool,  curt  replies  :  no  relaxation  of  his  face  ;  'iot 
a  smile ;  not  a  tender  look  in  his  eye.  Was  this 
Tom  ?  What  did  it  mean  ?  Susan  was  bewildered  ; 
she  could  do  nothing  but  reiterate  helplessly  her 
piteous  cry,  "  Tom,  what  is  the  matter  ? " 

He  left  her  immediately  after  breakfast,  with  the 
same  strange  formal  kiss  he  had  given  her  the 
night  before. 

After  he  had  gone,  the  impression  of  his  altered 
manner  faded  somewhat ;  it  was  all  so  new,  so 
strange,  that  as  soon  as  he  was  out  of  her  sight,  she 
thought  she  must  have  exaggerated  it  —  imagined  it. 

"  I  dare  say  he  really  was  ill  without  knowing  it," 
she  said.  "  It  must  be  that.  He  is  n't  in  the  least 
himself.  Perhaps  he  will  be  better  by  noon." 

Noon  came  ;  Tom  came.  The  same  cool,  re 
served  manner;  the  same  cool,  distant  tone;  the 
same  terrible  silence  !  Susan  now  grew  seriously 
alarmed.  As  soon  as  the  servant  had  left  them 
alone,  she  exclaimed  :  — 

"  Tom,  you  shall  not  treat  me  in  this  manner  any 
longer.  What  have  I  done  ?  " 

"  How  do  I  treat  you  ?  "  he  asked  coldly. 

Susan  could  not  keep  the  tears  back. 

"Why,  Tom,"  she  said,  "you  treat  me  as  if  I 
had  displeased  you  most  seriously :  as  if  you  were 
mortally  offended  with  me  for  something.  What 
have  I  done  ?  I  do  implore  you  to  tell  me." 

"You  have  not  done  anything.  I  am  not  of- 
tended/  he  replied. 


3/8  SUSAN  LAWTON'S  ESCAPE. 

Susan  was  clinging  to  him,  and  looking  up  in  his 
face  with  streaming  tears. 

"Tom,"  said  she,  you  are  not  telling  me  the 
truth.  You  are  as  changed  as  a  human  being  can 
be,  and  yet  keep  the  same  body.  Something  has 
happened ;  and  you  shall  tell  me.  I  have  certainly 
displeased  you,  and  I  cannot  imagine  how." 

He  loosened  her  arms  from  his  neck,  and  put 
her  away,  not  ungently,  but  very  firmly. 

"  There  is  nothing  to  tell,"  he  said.  "  I  am  not 
displeased.  I  must  go  now." 

Susan's  arms  fell,  her  whole  figure  drooped. 
She  stopped  weeping,  and  looked  piteously  into 
her  husband's  face. 

"Tom,"  she  said;  you  are  very  hard.  I  would 
not  hurt  you  so  for  all  the  world,"  and  she  turned 
and  left  him. 

All  the  long  afternoon  she  sat  like  one  in  a 
dream  of  misery.  It  seemed  to  her  as  if  the  very 
sun  had  gone  out.  How  helpless  she  was  !  How 
long  could  she  live  —  she  wondered  over  and  over 
—  if  Tom  continued  like  this  ! 

When  he  came  home  at  night,  she  studied  his 
face  timidly,  and  in  silence.  She  tried  to  converse 
about  indifferent  subjects.  There  was  no  change 
in  him;  still  the  same  frigid,  distant  civility;  the 
glance,  the  tone  of  a  stranger  and  not  of  a  husband. 
By  a  great  effort  she  kept  back  the  tears.  She 
was  growing  calmer  now  and  more  resolved.  In 
&  few  minutes  after  tea  was  over,  Tom  said,  with 
in  attempt  at  ease :  — 


SUSAN  LAWTON'S  ESCAPE.  3/9 

"  I  am  going  to  leave  you  now.  I  must  go  down 
town." 

Susan  sprang  up,  closed  the  door,  and  standing 
with  her  back  firmly  against  it,  said,  in  a  low  tone, 
breathlessly,  — 

"  You  shall  not  go  till  you  tell  me  what  has  so 
changed  you  in  this  one  twenty-four  hours.  Why, 
Tom  !  Do  you  know  how  you  look  at  me  ?  How 
you  speak  to  me  ?  Why,  I  should  be  dead  in  one 
week,  if  it  kept  on  like  this.  What  have  I  done  ? 
What  has  come  to  you  ?  " 

He  looked  at  her  curiously  and  observantly. 

"  How  do  I  look  at  you  ?  How  do  I  speak  to 
you  ?  "  he  said. 

Susan  was  crying  hard,  now.  She  could  hardly 
speak. 

"  You  look  at  me,"  she  sobbed,  "  as  if  I  were 
not  your  wife,  and  never  had  been.  You  speak  to 
me  as  if  you  hated  me ;  all  that  is  in  your  tone. 
Oh,  you  'd  know  it  quickly  enough,  if  I  looked  at 
you  even  once  with  such  an  expression !  Tom,  I 
shall  go  mad  if  you  don't  tell  me  !  You  can't  de 
ceive  me.  You  need  n't  think  you  can.  I  know 
every  slightest  intonation  of  your  voice,  every  shade 
of  your  eye.  T  've  seen  you  vexed  about  little 
things,  or  out  of  patience,  or  tired  —  but  this  is  dif 
ferent  ;  this  is  horrible.  I  know  I  must  have  of 
fended  you  in  some  way,  and  it  is  cruel  in  you  not 
to  tell  me,  —  cruel,  cruel,  cruel !  " 

He  still  stood  looking  at  her  with  a  cool  observ- 


380  SUSAN  LAWTON'S  ESCAPE 

ant  expression,  and  made  no  reply  for  a  moment  j 
then  he  said,  taking  hold  of  the  door :  — 

"  I  must  go  now,  I  don't  want  to  talk  any  more. 
I  will  be  back  soon." 

"  You  shall  not  go,"  said  Susan,  more  slowly,  and 
in  a  voice  of  anguish.  "  I  will  follow  you ;  you 
shall  not  leave  me  !  Oh,  Tom,  Tom,  tell  me  what 
I  have  done  !  "  Suddenly,  by  what  preternatural 
intuition  I  know  not,  —  possibly,  because,  in  her 
great  excitement,  she  was  lifted  into  a  state  of  clair 
voyant  perception,  —  she  stopped  like  one  hearing 
a  distant  sound,  leaned  forward,  and  said  in  an 
altered  tone,  "Was  it  because  I  would  not  let  you 
read  my  letter  to  Bell  ?  " 

As  the  words  passed  her  lips,  she  saw  his  face 
change,  —  the  first  break  which  there  had  been  in 
its  fearful  rigidity.  She  knew  she  had  touched  the 
truth  at  last. 

"  Tom,  Tom  !  "  she  cried,  "  was  that  it  ?  Was 
that  it?  I  see  it  was.  Why,  how  could  you  have 
minded  that  so  much  ?  "  and  she  led  him,  half  by 
main  force,  to  a  chair,  and  threw  her  arms  around 
his  neck. 

"  Ought  I  not  to  have  minded  it  ? "  he  asked,  in 
a  stern  tone. 

Susan  was  reflecting.  How  distinctly  before  her 
eyes  at  that  moment,  stood  out  the  fatal  sentence, 
"  Be  careful  what  you  write."  ^ 

"  Tom,"  she  said,  "  I  will  write  this  very  night 
Jo  Bell,  and  ask  her  to  send  back  the  letter,  that 
you  may  read  every  word  of  it." 


SUSAN  LAWTON'S  ESCAPE.  381 

"  I  have  no  wish  to  read  it,"  he  said  coldly. 
Susan  was  in  despair. 

"  Tom,  what  else  can  I  do  ?  "  she  said.  "  Oh, 
tet  me  send  for  it?  I  never  dreamed  that  you 
would  mind  not  seeing  it.  Why,  you  don't  see  half 
my  letters  to  Bell." 

He  made  no  reply.  Susan  sat  silent  for  a  mo- 
men-t.  She  seemed  no  nearer  her  husband  than 
before.  The  same  intangible  icy  barrier  which  had 
rilled  her  with  such  anguish  all  day  was  there  still. 
Suddenly,  with  one  of  those  lightning  impulses,  by 
which  men  in  desperate  need  have  often  been 
saved  as  by  a  miracle,  Susan  exclaimed:  — 

"  Tom,  I  can  tell  you  all  there  was  in  the  letter. 
I  mean  all  there  was  which  I  did  not  want  you  to 
see."  She  paused.  Her  husband  fixed  his  eyes 
on  her  with  as  piercing  a  gaze  as  if  she  had  been  a 
witness  in  a  case  of  life  and  death.  "  This  was  it," 
continued  Susan.  "  It  was  about  Professor  Balloure. 
You  know  what  you  said  to  me  the  other  morning, 
that  at  any  rate  he  could  n't  have  me." 

Tom  nodded. 

"  Well,  I  can't  tell  you  how  that  shocked  me.  I 
never  dreamed  of  your  having  had  any  feeling  like 
jealousy  about  him,  or  any  thought  about  him  in 
any  way  in  connection  with  me.  Oh,  Tom,  Tom  1 
how  could  you  ever  help  knowing  that  with  all  the 
ove  of  my  whole  nature  I  have  loved  you  !  Well, 
you  see,  Bell  had  always  talked  to  me  about  the 
professor's  caring  for  me.  She  always  thought  he 


382  SUSAN  LAWTON'S  ESCAPE. 

wished  he  could  marry  me,  and  in  this  letter  telling 
about  his  wife's  death  she  said  several  things  that  I 
did  n't  like  ;  I  did  n't  read  them  to  you  ;  and  in  my 
letter  to  her  I  told  her  how  much  safer  and  happier 
I  was  with  you  than  I  ever  could  have  been  with 
any  other  man  in  the  world,  and " 

Susan  hesitated.  How  hard  it  was  to  quote  that 
unfortunate  sentence  just  as  it  stood  !  "  and  —  there 
really  was  only  one  sentence  in  the  letter  I  was  un 
willing  you  should  see.  I  thought  you  would  n't 
understand.  I  told  Bell  to  be  careful  what  she 
wrote  to  me  about  it,  because  I  had  n't  any  secrets 
from  you,  and  you  might  look  over  my  shoulder 
and  read  the  letter." 

While  Susan  was  speaking  these  last  words, 
Tom's  eyes  seemed  to  grow  darker  and  darker, 
with  the  fixity  of  their  gaze.  As  she  finished,  he 
put  his  arms  around  her,  held  her  tight  and  kissed 
her.  She  felt  that  the  ice  was  broken.  Weeping, 
she  kissed  his  cheek  and  nestled  closer. 

"  Sue,"  said  Tom,  — it  was  his  old  voice,  —  "  Sue, 
now  I  will  tell  you.  I  had  read  that  letter." 

Sue  started,  and  exclaimed,  "  You !  read  that 
tetter!" 

"  Yes,"  he  said.  "  I  came  in  and  saw  it  lying 
here  open,  saw  it  was  to  Bell,  and  glanced  down 
the  pages  till  I  came  to  that  sentence  which  you 
have  just  repeated,  and  which,  you  will  admit,  I 
had  cause  to  resent." 

She  was  hardly  listening  to  wha  he  said.  Her 
(ace  was  full  of  awe,  almost  of  terror. 


SUSAN-  LAWTON'S  ESCAPE.  383 

"  Oh,  Tom,  Tom  !  "  she  cried,  was  n't  it  like  an 
inspiration,  the  impulse  which  made  me  tell  you 
that  sentence  ?  Supposing  I  had  not  told  you,  you 
would  never  have  believed  in  me  again  —  never  ! " 

"No,"  said  Tom. 

"  Don't  you  see,  dear  love,"  continued  Susan, 
"  just  how  I  said  that  ?  simply  to  save  you  pain  ?  — 
not  in  the  least  because  there  were  any  secrets  in 
the  past  I  was  afraid  of  Bell's  letting  out,  but  be 
cause  by  your  speech  to  me  about  the  professor,  I 
knew  that  you  had  had  some  feeling  about  him,  and 
I  thought,  if  Bell  said  any  more  of  her  light,  jest 
ing,  thoughtless  things  in  regard  to  him,  they  would 
only  strengthen  your  feeling  and  give  you  annoy 
ance.  Do  you  see  ?  Oh,  do  say  that  you  see  just 
how  it  was !" 

"  Yes,  I  do  see,"  said  Tom,  kissing  her.  "  I  do 
see,  and  I  thank  God  that  you  told  me  yourself  of 
the  sentence.  That  took  the  load  off  my  heart." 

Susan  shuddered. 

u  Oh,  suppose  I  had  forgotten  it !  "  she  said.  "  1 
might  have,  though  I  don't  believe  I  ever  could, 
for  the  sentence  hurt  me  when  I  wrote  it." 

Susan  was  weak  from  nervous  exhaustion  ;  the 
twenty-four  hour's  strain  had  been  a  severe  one. 
She  laid  her  head  on  her  husband's  shoulder  and 
closed  her  eyes.  Without  a  word,  without  a  sound, 
without  a  motion,  she  knew  that  they  were  one 
again. 

After  a  time  she  said  softly :  — 


384  SUSAN  LAWTOX'S  ESCAPE 

"  Tom,  what  do  you  suppose  put  it  into  my  head 
that  it  could  possibly  have  been  the  letter  which 
had  troubled  you  ?  I  never  once  thought  of  it  at 
the  time.  I  did  not  dream  of  your  caring  to  see  it. 
Don't  you  think  it  must  have  been  an  angel  which 
made  me  think  of  it  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  dear,"  said  Tom,  solemnly.  "  It 
would  have  been  worth  while  for  an  angel." 

"  Tom,"  continued  Sue,  "  should  you  have  seemed 
all  the  rest  of  our  life  as  you  did  this  day  ?  " 

"  I  can't  tell,"  replied  Tom. 

"  But  you  could  never  have  trusted  me  again  ?  " 
she  said. 

"  Never,"  he  answered. 

After  another  long,  peaceful  silence,  Susan  lifted 
her  head  again  and  said  :  — 

"  Tom,  will  you  promise  me  now  one  thing  ? 
Promise  me  that,  as  long  as  we  live,  you  will  never 
bury  anything  in  your  heart  as  you  did  this.  Only 
think  by  what  a  narrow  chance  we  have  escaped 
terrible  misery.  Promise  me  that  if  ever  again  any 
act  of  mine  seems  to  you  wrong,  you  will  come  in 
stantly  to  me  and  tell  me.  Will  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Sue,  I  will,"  said  Tom  fervently. 

And  this  was  Susan  Lawton's  escape. 


RIEF  LIST  OF  BOOKS  OF  FICTION 
PUBLISHED  BY  CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S 
SONS,  743-745  BROADWAY,  NEW  YORK. 


Mary  Adams. 

AN  HONORABLE  SURRENDER.     (I6mo,  $1.00.) 

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descriptive  and  analytical  passages  are  neither  obtrusive  nor  too 
prolix.  The  sum  of  all  these  negations  is  a  charming  book,  full  of 
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William  Waldorf  Astor. 

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the  fine  points  of  artistic  skill  which  make  this  study  so  wonderful 
in  its  insight,  so  rare  in  its  combination  of  dramatic  power  and 
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Hjalmar  H.  Boyesen. 

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SCRIBNER'S    BRIEF    LIST    OF    FICTION. 

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of  Commerce. 


SCRIBNER'S    BRIEF    LIST    OF    FICTION.          3 

George  W.  Cable. 

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Erckmann-Cbatrian. 

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The  Philadelphia  Inquirer. 


4          SCRIBNER'S    BRIEF    LIST    OF    FICTION* 

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SETH'S  BROTHER'S  WIFE.     (I2mo,  $1.25.) 

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THE  JESUIT'S    RING.     A  Romance  of  Mount  Desert  (I2mo,  paper,  50  cts.; 
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SCRIBNER'S    BRIEF    LIST    OF    FICTION,          5 

E.  T.  W.  Hoffmann. 

WEIRD  TALES.     With  Portrait  (I2mo,  2vols.,  $3.00). 

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reading." — The  Christian  Union. 

Dr.  J.  G.  Holland. 

SEVEN    OAKS— THE   BAY    PATH— ARTHUR   BONNICASTLE— MISS  GIL- 
BERT'S  CAREER-NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

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with  the  pure  and  tranquil  life  in  the  modest  social  circles  of  the 
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Thomas  A.  Janvier. 

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the  inventor,  the  checker-playing  clergyman  and  druggist,  the 
rising  young  doctor,  the  sentimental  painter,  the  rival  grocers,  etc. , 
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Lieut.  J.  D.  J.  Kelley. 

A  DESPERATE  CHANCE.     (I2mo,  paper,  50  cts.;    cloth,  $1.00.) 

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readers  may  be  assured  that  they  will  not  be  tired  out  by  analytical 
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Brooklyn  Union. 

The  King's  Men : 

A  TALE  OF  TO-MORROW.     By  Robert  Grant,  John  Boyle  O'Reilly,  J.  8., 
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6         SCRIBNER'S    BRIEF    LIST    OF    FICTION. 

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novels  have  the  refinement  of  motive  which  characterize  the  analytical 

school,  but   his    manner  is  far  more   direct  and   dramatic." The 

Christian  Union. 

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THE  SECRET   OF  THE  SEA,    and    Other  Stories.     (I2mo,    paper,   50  cts.- 

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Donald  G.  Mitchell. 

DR.  JOHNS.     (I2rno,  $1.25.) 


-— ., .saintly  _ 

and  women,  their  ways,  habits  ;  in  short,  alt  the  warp  and  woof 
going  to  make  the  texture  of  this  isolated  rural  life.  There  are  few 
writers  in  this  country  who  have  ever  surpassed  the  author  in  the 
description  of  rural  New  England  life."—  The  San  Francisco 
Bulletin. 


Fit^-James  O'Brien. 

THE   DIAMOND   LENS 
$1.00.) 

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with  Poe  s  works,  and  if  they  do  not  equal  it  in  workmanship  they 
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THE   DIAMOND   LENS,  with   Other  Stories.     (I2mo,   paper,  50  cts.;    cloth, 


SCRIBNER'S    BRIEF    LIST    OF    FICTION.          7 

Thomas  Nelson  Page. 

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Howard  Pyle. 

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proves  to  possess  all  the  wonderful  elements  of  romance  and  adven 
ture." —  The  Boston  Journal. 

Saxe  Holm's  Stories. 

FIRST  SERIES.— Draxy  Miller's  Dowry— The  Elder's  Wife— Whose  Wife 
Was  She?— The  One-Legged  Dancers— How  One  Woman  Kept  Her  Husband 
—Esther  Wynn's  Love  Letters. 

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Julia  Schayer. 

TIGER  LILY,  and  Other  Stories.     (I2mo,  $1.00.) 

"  Each  of  the  fine  short  stories  in  the  present  collection  is  original 
in  subject  and  unique  in  treatment,  and  the  story  of  '  Tiger  Lily  '  is, 
in  its  way,  short  as  it  is,  a  masterpiece." — The  Critic. 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson. 

STRANGE  CASE  OF  DR.  JEKYLL  AND  MR.  HYDE.  (I2mo,  paper,  25 
cts.;  cloth,  $1.00)— KIDNAPPED.  (I2mo,  paper,  50  cts.;  cloth,  $1.00, 
illustrated,  $1.25)— THE  MERRY  MEN,  and  Other  Tales  and  Fables.  (I2mo, 
paper,  35  cts.;  cloth,  $1.00)— NEW  ARABIAN  NIGHTS.  (!2mo,  paper, 
30  cts.;  cloth,  $1.00)— THE  DYNAMITER.  With  Mrs.  Stevenson  (I2mo, 
paper,  30  cts.;  cloth,  $1.00). 

"  If  there  is  any  writer  of  the  time  about  whom  the  critics  of 
England  and  America  substantially  agree  it  is  Mr.  Robert  Louis 
Stevenson.  There  is  something  in  his  work,  precisely  what,  it  is 
not  easy  to  say,  which  engages  and  fixes  the  attention  from  the  first 
page  to  the  last,  which  shapes  itself  before  the  mind's  eye  ';vhile 
reading,  and  which  refuses  to  be  forgotten  long  after  the  book  which 
revealed  it  has  been  closed  and  put  away." — The  New  York  Mail 
and  Express. 


8         SCRIBNER'S    BRIEF    LIST    OF    FICTION. 

J.  S.,  of  Dale. 

GUERNDALE.  (I2mo,  paper,  50  cts.;  cloth,  $1.25)— THE  CRIME  OF  HENRY 
VANE.  (I2mo,  $I.OQ)-THE  SENTIMENTAL  CALENDAR.  Head  Pieces 
by  F.  G.  Attwood  (I2mo,  $2.00). 

"The  author  of  that  very  bright,  witty,  and  audacious  story, 
'Guerndale/  has  written  another,  'The  Crime  of  Henry  Vane,' 
which  is  just  as  witty  in  many  of  its  chapters  and  has  more  of  a 
'  purpose '  in  its  whole  structure.'  No  young  novelist  in  this  country 
seems  better  equipped  than  Mr.  Stimson  is.  He  shows  unusual  gifts 
in  this  and  in  his  other  stories." — The  Philadelphia  Bulletin. 

Frank  R.  Stockton. 

RUDDER  GRANGE.  (I2mo,  paper,  60  cts.;  cloth,  $1.25;  illustrated  by  A.  B. 
Frost,  Sq.  I2mo,  $2.00)— THE  LATE  MRS.  NULL.  (I2mo,  $1.25)— THE 
LADY,  OR  THE  TIGER?  and  Other  Stories.  (I2mo,  paper,  50  cts.;  cloth, 
$1.25)— THE  CHRISTMAS  WRECK,  and  Other  Stories.  (I2mo,  paper,  50 
cts.;  cloth,  $1.25)— THE  BEE-MAN  OF  ORN,  and  Other  Fanciful  Tales. 
(I2mo,  cloth,  $1.25.) 

"  Of  Mr.  Stockton's  stories  what  is  there  to  say,  but  that  they 
are  an  unmixed  blessing  and  delight  ?  He  is  surely  one  of  the  most 
inventive  of  talents,  discovering  not  only  a  new  kind  in  humor  and 
fancy,  but  accumulating  an  inexhaustible  wealth  of  details  in  each 
fresh  achievement,  the  least  of  which  would  be  riches  from  another 
hand." — W.  D.  Ho  WELLS,  in  Harper's  Magazine. 

Stories  by  American  Authors. 

Cloth,  i6mo,  jjoc.  each;  set,  10  vols.,  $5.00;  cabinet  ed.,  in  sets  only,  $7.J"0. 
Circulars  describing  the  series  sent  on  application  to  the  publishers. 

"  The  public  ought  to  appreciate  the  value  of  this  series,  which 
is  preserving  permanently  in  American  literature  short  stories  that 
have  contributed  to  its  advancement.  American  writers  lead  all 
others  in  this  form  of  fiction,  and  their  best  work  appears  in  these 
volumes." — The  Boston  Globe. 

T.  R.  Sullivan. 

ROSES  OF  SHADOW.     (I2mo,  $1.00.) 

"  The  characters  of  the  story  have  a  remarkable  vividness  and 
individuality — every  one  of  them — which  mark  at  once  Mr.  Sullivan's 
strongest  promise  as  a  novelist.  All  of  his  men  are  excellent.  John 
Musgrove,  the  grimly  pathetic  old  beau,  sometimes  reminds  us  of  a 
touch  of  Thackeray." — The  Cincinnati  Times- Star. 

John  T.  Wheelwright. 

A  CHILD  OF  THE  CENTURY.     (I2mo,  paper,  50  cts.;   cloth,  $1.00.) 

"  This  is  one  of  the  most  thoroughly  enjoyable  novels  that  has 
been  published  for  a  long  time.  It  is  a  story  of  to-day,  of  American 
life  and  character  ;  a  typical  story  of  political  and  social  life,  free 
from  cynicism  or  morbid  realism,  and  brimming  over  with  good- 
natured  fun,  which  is  never  vulgar." —  The  Christian  at  Work. 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


AN  INITIAL  FINE  OF  25  CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  SO  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $1.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


AU6     4  1934 


LD21-100m-7,'33 


466523 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


